


Things that Tattoo our Souls

by 1MissMolly



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Discriptions of torture, Gay Sex, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Murder, Murder Mystery, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6961240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MissMolly/pseuds/1MissMolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My youngest brother disappeared fifteen years ago. It was believed he was murdered." Mycroft Holmes said to the operative from MI6.<br/>"I understand that, sir. But what does that have to do with my Quartermaster?" asked James Bond.<br/>"Because your Quartermaster is my dead brother." </p><p>Q ran away from home fifteen years ago. Everyone believed he had been murdered but he wasn't. And if he wants to keep his position at MI6 he needs to determine who the real killer is and who will be the next victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Following Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a plot heavy story without a lot of smut. I know, not my typical writing style, but I hope you like it. I'm trying to push my skills. There will be descriptions of child and sexual abuse (not graphic) as well as a serial killer (graphic). Comments are always welcomed.

Following Orders

Q looked at the brief he had been sent. He growled softly. M had informed the head of the TSS that he would attend the meeting in Scotland regarding intelligence gathering. It was stupid. He was too busy to waste his time meeting members of Whitehall to explain to them the intricacies of his job. There was an ongoing mission in Brazil and MI6 had two double ‘O’s out in the field. Testing on two new radio transmitters needed to be done for R and D. A new rifle needed beta testing. Finally, he was going to be sending 006 out to Latvia by the end of the week. He did not want to go to Scotland.

To top it all off, M had insisted on sending 007 as Q’s body guard. The operative was suspended from missions for four months after blowing up the Yemen embassy in Paris. It had been a bit excessive but Bond was after a terrorist who turned out to be the security chief for the ambassador.

It was completely ridiculous but Mallory felt Q need to be protected. Bond was available and been ordered to accompany Q to Scotland. Honestly, it wasn’t as if he was traveling far. He would still be in Great Britain. Now Q would be burdened with 007 as well as the idiots from Whitehall.

He heard the polite knock on the door. “Enter.”

The door opened and R, his second in command, walked in. The older woman was wearing her grey pencil skirt and tomato red blouse. Her hair was pulled back and held in a loose bun by a clip. R always had a knowing smile on her face, like a mother who always knew what kind of trouble her children were getting in to. Q appreciated the older woman. She had been his superior prior to his appointment as director. In fact, he was surprised to learn that she had nominated him for the position. Everyone believed R would follow Boothroyd as the head of the department after his death, but the fifty-eight year old woman recommended the younger and more creative Peter Wilson, to take the Major’s place.

Q glanced up at her as she entered and smiled. She placed a pile of folders on the corner of his desk. Q looked at the papers and sighed heavily.

“Why are we still using paper? Surely in 2016 we could be paperless.”

“Then think of all the file clerks who would be out of a job.” R said knowingly at Q. “They’re not overly important but you will need to take these with you and review them on your down time during between meetings.”

“Down time? This whole meeting is waste of my time. Why can’t we send TJ instead?” Q asked, frustrated.

“Because we need to impress the members of Whitehall, therefore maintain the flow of funds into MI6. And sending our very busy Quartermaster will impress them.”

Q rolled his eyes as R laughed softly at him. The two engineers heard a knock on the open door. 007 was standing in the open doorway watching the two of them.

“Good afternoon, James.” R said.

The blonde operative smile seductively at the older woman. She had been on the receiving end of many of his best moves only to simply ignore them. The double ‘O’s all regarded R with respect and affection. The type of affection one would have for their maiden aunt who would spoil them.

“R, my dear. When are you going to run away with me?” Bond purred at the older woman.

“When I lose all sense and reason.” She patted him on the shoulder as she left.

Bond’s smile remained on his lips until she left the room, then he turned back to the Quartermaster. The younger man ignored the operative and left Bond standing there for five minutes while he finished typing. He then sat and reviewed the report he had just written, occasionally editing his work. Bond remained perfectly still, forbidding himself to fidget as he waited. When Q had finished and electronically sent the report on to the executive branch, he looked up at Bond and sighed.

“I’m sure you’ve read through the brief. Nothing too complex for this mission.” Q said as he adjusted his glasses.

“Then why the need for a double ‘O’?” Bond asked barely keeping the sarcasm in check.

“Not my choice, 007. I was informed only a half hour before you. Apparently, M decided giving you a menial job would be more punishment than no work at all. Or maybe he felt that you being in Scotland would be safer for London while you consider the long term ramification to Foreign Relations when you go blowing up embassies around the world. I believe this isn’t the first time you’ve neglected to acknowledge the sovereignty of such establishments.”

“Where is the meeting at?” Bond pointedly ignored Q’s jab. He moved closer to the Quartermaster’s desk.

“Didn’t you read . . . of course you didn’t . . . Gleneagles in Scotland. I believe it is supposed to be nice.” Q closed his laptop and stood up. He stepped around Bond and walked out into the bull pen of TSS. “There is to be a meeting between the various members of the intelligence gathering organizations of Great Britain. MI6 and 5, Military Intelligence and members of Whitehall. I am supposed to attend too. Bloody waste of my time.” Q hissed. When he arrived to his station in the center of TSS, he powered up the computer and began typing. “I’m too busy to waste my time with a bunch of bureaucrats who want to golf.”

“We must all follow our orders.” The corner of Bond’s mouth twitched up in subtle curve. He wondered if he could get a few rounds in. It had been a long time since he had be free enough to play golf.

Q twisted around and looked up at Bond over the frames of his glasses.

“Oh, of course you would play golf.” Q sighed again in exasperation. “Be ready to pick me up at six tomorrow morning. We have a long drive to Scotland.”

Bond smiled at the younger man. Q knew that the operative was up to something.

~Q~

To say that Gleneagles in Scotland was superb would be an understatement. The suite assigned to Q and Bond was elegant and sumptuous. The windows looked out over the manicured golf course and forests. The sitting room was furnished in comfortable yet sophisticated chairs and couches. The bedrooms were decorated in tartans and had private ensuites. Bond wandered through the suite, checking every room and admiring the marbled bathroom with the deep two person tub. Q noticed the twitch to the corner of Bond’s mouth.

Bond came back out into the sitting room to see Q spreading out his computer and several file folders on the dining table. The young man looked around the suite then sat down at table, turning the computer on.

“Bond, see if you can find the water kettle and fix me a cuppa.” Q said as he studied the computer screen.

“I believe room service would be more than happy to provide tea for you.”

Q just hummed and ignored the man. He started typing quickly as his eyes followed the lines of code. Bond watched the young man work for few moments. Then he collapsed on the soft sofa propping his feet up on the arm of the couch. He propped a pillow behind his head and started to study the young Quartermaster.

“The other members of the conference probably arrived last night. The first meeting will be at four this afternoon. You should probably take a nap now.” Q said without looking up from his computer.

“Are you making an assertion about my age?” Bond’s voice had a sharpness to it.

“Never, my dear agent. I just don’t like being stared out while I’m working.”

“I’m just enjoying the view.” Bond said. The younger man saw a sly smile slip over Bond’s face before it disappeared. The agent was up to something.

“I believe the golf course is out of the window behind you.”

“Yes and a lovely view is in front of me.”

Q sat up straight and stared at the man. Q did a quick calculation in his head. It had been two and half weeks since Bond had returned from France. In that time he had not gotten into any reportable trouble. The agent was obviously planning to do something. Something that Q feared he would be in the center of.

“Tea . . . Earl Grey . . . three sugars.” Q returned to his typing.

The young man was lost in his work when the delicious scent of warm sweet tea brought him back to the elegant suite in the Scottish Highlands. Q looked down to see the cup of Earl Grey steaming beside his computer. He smiled. Then he felt the presence of someone standing right behind his chair. The subtle push and the brush of someone’s breathe over his skin. The sudden surge of fear rushed through Q’s body. The need to flee.

“Tell me your name . . .” Bond’s voice was deep and near Q’s ear.

“It’s classified.” The young man tried to sit still. His muscles tensed.

“Tell me your name . . .”

Q’s skin puckered with goose flesh. Bond’s voice was sweeping over the younger man like a wave forcing every fiber in his body to run. The whole scene was throwing the man into conflict. Q closed his eyes.

“Why?”

“I want to know what I will be whispering in your ear later tonight . . .”

Bond’s breathe was warm across the skin of Q’s neck. The young man shivered but not from cold. The two men had flirted since they had first met, but Q never considered Bond to be actually interested in the computer geek.

“Peter . . .”

Q turned to look into Bond’s face, but the blonde was already backing up and moving away. Apparently, Bond’s entertainment during this conference would be driving Q to distraction.

~Q~

The fourth floor conference room was a contrast to the rest of Gleneagles ambiance. Where the hotel and spa had the grandeur of Victorian estate. The conference rooms were more modern and efficient, while still maintaining a sophistication and affluence.

There was a large table in the center of the soundproof room. A thick royal blue carpet and pale grey walls. The drapes were blackout curtains, preventing any light from slipping around them, allowing for the best viewing of any visual material. The chairs were leather and wide to accommodate even the most overweight executives.

The large oak table had six seats spaced out around it. Each seat had a packet with information and reports for the attendees to read and review at their own convenience. Each seat also had an individual pitcher of water and crystal tumbler, IPad with connection to the audio-visual system in the room, and a name placard.

Around the edge of the room were more chairs, for the assistants and underlings and . . . body guards of the members of the conference.

Q took the seat with the placard that read, ‘ _Peter Wilson, Quartermaster, MI6’._ Bond looked at the placard with Q’s name on it. If Q’s name really was classified, then the members attending this meeting were important enough to know the man’s name. Bond sat down in the chair behind Q and started to study each and every person who entered the room.

Q opened the report in front of him. He glared at another paper report that he would need to keep track of. He wondered how difficult would it be for him to convince these idiots to move to video conferences.

The other members started to take their seats. Q recognized Max Denbigh from MI5 and Francis Urquhart, the Conservative Whip. Q looked back down at the agenda for the meeting when he heard the door open. He didn’t lift his head but glanced at the man who was walking in. Unlike the other participants, this man had a young woman working as his assistant. Her head was down as she was texting on a Blackberry.

Q looked up further. Expensive grey wool suit with pale blue pin-strips. A matching grey brolly. Q felt his heart constrict. He looked up further. Pale skin, patrician nose, auburn hair. He didn’t need to see the face.

Q stood quickly and moved as fast as he could towards the door. Bond watched confused but rose to follow his Quartermaster.

“Please let us get started . . . everyone take your seats.” The man in the grey suit said in precise public school diction.

Q froze when he heard the familiar voice. He struggled to take the next step but he did.

“Quartermaster? . . . Peter Wilson, please sit down so we can finish this meeting as quickly as possible. I am needed elsewhere.”

Bond had reached Q’s shoulder and reached out and touched the young man’s arm. Q turned slightly to look at Bond. The operative could see the fear in Q’s eyes. Bond reached for the gun in his shoulder holster but Q touched his hand and stopped him. The young man shook his head and his dark curls tossed side to side.

“Please, Quartermaster . . . you are wasting everyone’s time.” The man in the grey suit said.

Q slowly turned and looked Mycroft Holmes in the face. The auburn hair man took in a sudden shaking breath.

“Sherrinford . . .” He glanced again at the placard in front of Q’s seat. “Ah . . . Peter Wilson . . . how could you be so thoughtless!?”

The two men stared at each other in silence. Then Mycroft Holmes snapped his fingers. His assistance jumped to her feet.

“Will everyone please leave the room.” The woman said in an assertive voice.

The men sitting around the table looked confused and started to mumble amongst themselves.

“You’ve been told to leave.” Holmes said sharply.

The other people in the room started to file out quickly, but Q and Bond remained where they were standing. Several of the attendees stared at Q but the young man didn’t acknowledge them.

When the three men were alone, Mycroft Holmes spoke. “Send your guard away.”

“With all due respect, sir. No.” Bond said his hand now possessively resting on Q’s shoulder. Bond moved to place himself between Holmes and his Quartermaster.

“Bond, no . . . it is okay.” Q said in defeated voice.

“Q? . . . I am here as your body guard and I will do so regardless what orders you give me.”

“Sherrinford, you thoughtless selfish little child . . . did you not stop and think what damage you would do!” Mycroft snapped at Q.

“Sherrinford? What is Holmes talking about, Q?” Bond asked remaining between the two men.

“That’s my name . . . Sherrinford Holmes. Mycroft Holmes is my brother.”

“And Sherrinford Holmes, has been dead for fifteen years.”


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes confronts Q. While Bond leans Q's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't not tell you how wonderful and scared I felt by your comments. You have been so supportive that now I'm worried I will disappoint you. I'm working harder now to do my very best with this story. I hope you enjoy it. It is getting more twisty and curvy as I edit it. Please let me know what you think and if I make any mistakes, please let tell me so I can correct them. thanks.

The Family

“And my brother, Sherrinford Holmes, has been dead for fifteen years.” Mycroft gasped. The hint of emotion penetrating his words.

Mycroft Holmes, whom had been known as the ‘Ice Man’, rushed forward to embrace his brother. The man whom stated ‘ _caring is a disadvantage’,_ felt a wave of relief, and happiness . . . and uncertainty then anger.

Bond, confused by Holmes and Q, fell back onto his orders. ‘Protect the Quartermaster’. He stepped between the two men. Blocking Holmes from reaching the younger man. Holmes stopped and glared at the operative.

This was the situation Q had feared for years. Running into one of his brothers. He knew Signer and Violet Holmes lived in Cambridge, but his brothers . . . they both lived and worked in London, as he did. That was one of the reasons, although he would never admit to it, that he hid in the tunnels under MI6. He plunged himself into his work and stayed sequestered within the walls of TSS for hours and days on end.

Now, here, in Scotland, his nightmare has come true. His older brother was standing before him. He was recognized as a Holmes.

“Mycroft . . . Sherrinford Holmes should stay dead.” Q said in a weakened voice.

“Your family?! . . . Sherlock, our parents . . . how could you do that to them?!” Mycroft pleaded.

For a moment, Q allowed himself to regret his decision to run, then he remembered. The pain and fear. He could still hear the screams, Hanna and his own. The looks from his uncle and his aunt. Q felt a rush return to his body. The anger and fear that made him run for his life fifteen years before.

“I do not have a family.” Q snapped back at his brother.

Mycroft leaned back from the verbal snap. For the briefest of moments, Mycroft paled, then the composure of the diplomate returned to the man. He had dealt with petulance before. He was now on familiar footing. Sherrinford was just like his brother, Sherlock.

“Brother dear, you never really did grow up, did you? Because you didn’t get your way, you decide to destroy your toys? Punish everyone around you? Do you realize how much pain you have caused?”

“You do not know what you are talking about, Mycroft. You were not there! You left! You and Sherlock left with our father!”

“We may not have been in Carlton, but we dealt with the destruction you caused. Do you actually believe you are the only one who has suffered?”

The words bit into Q’s mind. Mycroft had no idea what he was talking about. Q was only fourteen when they left him behind in southern England with his aunt and uncle. Mycroft didn’t know what a monster Marcus really was.

“You have no comprehension of suffering, Mycroft. None of you do!”

“I was called back from London to deal with our parents when they thought you were dead.”

“Poor Mycroft . . . unable to start a war that week?”

Mycroft Holmes tipped his head back and looked down at his shorter brother.

“Do you have any idea how they felt when they thought you were dead?”

“Did Daddy have to leave his latest mistress . . . did Violet miss a lecture?”

“She always treated you like you were her son!”

“My mother died.”

“Sherrinford, we are family. We are to take care of each other.”

“You’ve taken care of no one but yourself! You never cared for or thought of anyone but yourself, Mycroft!” Q lashed out again.

“How could you think that? Everything I’ve done, was for my family!”

“Liar!” Q shouted. “You weren’t even there! You don’t know what happened! . . . You weren’t told to ignore what had happened! . . . To forget what happened to me!”

“You selfish cruel little child! How could you do that to your family!?”

“Family!? I have no family. You and Sherlock are just people I share DNA with! We share a father, but nothing more! . . . Nothing else! We are strangers! We are nothing to each other!”

Bond could feel the animosity pouring off the two men. He moved to block Mycroft from his younger brother, but Q tried to step around the operative. Bond reached out and stopped him. He could tell something bad had happened to Q as a child, but he had no idea what it was. Right now he needed to protect the Quartermaster.

“Q, this is not accomplishing anything.” Bond said quietly. “Obviously, the two of you need to talk but until you can do it in a reasonable fashion, I believe it would be wise for both of you to wait.”

Q turned his anger on the operative. “You’re one to suggest calming down! How many men did you kill just because they got in your way finding out the truth about Vesper Lynd?!”

Bond’s icy blue eyes flashed anger at the younger man’s comment. Q was losing his professionalism and was soon he was going to say something he shouldn’t. Bond grabbed Q’s upper arm and squeezed it tight. The pain focusing Q’s attention to the blonde.

“Mister Holmes . . .” Bond said while his attention was set on the Quartermaster. “Q and I will be leaving now. If you wish to speak to him, I suggest you wait until both of you are clear headed and calmed down.”

Bond pushed Q towards the door. Mycroft remained still but he was not done with his brother. The politician came to the forefront.

“That will not be acceptable. I have discovered the Quartermaster of MI6 is a fraud. He is not whom he represents himself to be. I will be notifying Mallory immediately and ordering Peter Wilson’s arrest.”

Bond finally turned and looked at the other man. Q glared.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I most certainly would. You have falsified your records to obtain a job within the SIS. It is only appropriate that you be detained and investigated as a terrorist.”

A well-practiced condescending smile came to Bond’s face.

“No one will believe you.”

“You will find, Mister Bond, that I’m am always believed.”

Bond pushed Q towards the door, ignoring any further comments from the elder Holmes. The other members of the conference were waiting outside the room. Bond pushed Q passed them. The men were murmuring as they watched the operative manhandle the MI6 Quartermaster out of the room.

Bond marched Q to their suite before he let go. He slammed the door closed and made sure the locks were engaged before he turned to speak.

“Alright . . . what the bloody hell is going on?!” Bond looked pointedly at the young man.

“I thought it would be painfully obvious, Bond.” Q rubbed his upper arm. He would be bruised by the next day.

The fear and emotions finally hit Q. He rushed from the room and crashed into the bathroom. His knees hit the tile floor hard and he knelt down in front of the toilet and began to vomit. Bond followed the young man and watched from the door as Q dry heaved into the bowl. Bond filled a glass with water and handed it to Q. The young man rinsed his mouth out and spit. Then Bond handed Q a wet flannel.

“You ran away from home fifteen years ago and . . . what . . . created a false identification for yourself? That is nothing that Mallory will be consider a terrorist act.”

“No, not if I was a normal citizen of England, but unfortunately, I’m the half-brother of Mycroft Holmes and he is a first class prick.” Q wiped the back of neck then his face.

Q took his time to stand up. James moved to help him, but Q waved him back. The dark haired man slowly went and sat down on the couch. He cradled his head in his hands. Bond watched him for a moment then went and sat down on the other end of the couch away from him.

“You said something happened to make you run away.”

Q didn’t look up at the man.

“When I was fourteen . . . I was . . .”

Q squeezed his hands into fists on either side of his head. Bond could see the knuckles turning white as Q tried to push his emotions back down. In his mind he could hear the screams again.

“Q?” Bond thought he knew what had happened. It made his stomach revolt. His hand twitched and the desire to cause an unknown brute pain flooded Bond’s psyche.

“I come from a large extended family. Carlyle-Holmes from Sussex. There is still an estate there. Hundreds of acres. My grandfather lives in a large house built under the reign of George the Third. My family . . . step mother, father and two brothers lived near him and the families of my two uncles. Seven cousins. We had servants and gardeners and laborers living on the estate . . . There was a boy . . . the blacksmith’s son. His name was Peter Wilson.” Q lifted his head and leaned it back over the back of the couch. Bond could see Q was looking up at the ceiling, but his was concentrating on the past.

“He was found dead in the pond near the village. His head was bruised. The local constable and coroner ruled it an accident. Said Peter had hit his head and fell in . . . drowned. But . . .”

“You thought he was murdered.” Bond finished Q’s thought.

“Peter and I would play together. Grandfather frowned upon it, but we were friends. When I rebuilt my life, I took Peter’s name.”

“Is that why you left?”

“No . . . Let me explain from the beginning. My mother died when I was five. She wasn’t married to my father. He was a Holmes.” Q tipped his head back down and looked at his hands. “My father’s mother was married to Rathe Holmes until he died. Then she married Archibald Carlyle and had two more sons. Archibald adopted my father as his own son but my father kept the name of Holmes. My family owns Carlyle International. My father worked for my grandfather before he married my Violet Vernet. After the marriage, he was put on the board of directors.” Bond was familiar with the multinational company. It was involved in numerous businesses throughout Europe. “When my father had his affair with my mother, he was removed from the managing director’s chair and demoted. But he remained on the board.”

Q continued. “My uncle, Marcus Carlyle did not like my father, his half brother. Marcus was a . . . bastard. He was an alcoholic and abusive. He beat his wife and his two children. Michael and Hanna.” Q closed his eyes and Bond saw the man shake. “I saw him once . . . I saw him with Hanna . . . she was only a year older than me. Fifteen. He was . . . he had his hands around her neck and was . . . it was horrible.”

Bond watched as tears started to flow rapidly down Q’s cheeks.

“Rape?”

“Yes.”

Q didn’t say anything else. The room was oppressively quiet except for the tick tock of the clock on the table. Bond thought he could hear Q’s heart beating in the young man’s chest. This was beyond what he ever thought of the man. The pain and loneliness Q must had felt. The bastard child growing up in a household of abusive adults. Bond waited for Q to continue his story.

“You told your parents what you saw and they told you to forget about it.”

Q looked over at the man. “Not my parents . . . I told my aunt. She said not to tell anyone.”

“But you told your parents eventually? Is that why you left?”

Q blinked several times then audible swallowed. “No . . . My parents weren’t there. I was fourteen . . . I confronted him . . . I told Marcus what I had seen and if he ever touched her again . . . He hit me. Knocked me to the floor. He . . . he did to me what he did to her.”

Bond could feel his teeth grinding. His hand moved to his holster but Marcus wasn’t there for Bond to kill.

“I fled afterwards . . .” Q continued. “I was so . . . ashamed . . . frightened. I didn’t think anyone would help me.” Q buried his face into his hands.

“Do you think he killed Peter?” Bond was now trying to fit the pieces together of Q’s story.

“I don’t know. Marcus died in the same pond Peter did.” His voice muffled by his hands.

“Marcus is dead?”

“He fell into the pond one night. Drowned. He was probably drunk.”

“When did he die?”

“A week after I left. I didn’t know about it for years. I ran away and went to London. I lived on the streets for several months. Hiding in doorways and dark corners of the tube. I used the computers at the library to create a false identity. Took me a while before I could make a convincing background to actually start living like a human being again. Got into Uni and from there I never looked back. MI6 hired me while I was still in school. Waited for me to get my advanced degrees. One day I saw my brother’s name in the newspaper. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I began to think about my family. That’s when I learned about Marcus and Hanna.”

“Hanna?”

“She was murdered a year after Marcus was found dead. She was killed on the estate. Her body was found in woods.”

“But Marcus was dead . . . could it have been suicide?”

Q shook his head. “She was stabbed repeatedly. They arrested one of the farm hands but he was innocent and released quickly. No one has ever been tried for her death.”

Bond sat quietly watching the young Quartermaster. Q had quit crying but it was obvious he was emotionally exhausted. Bond ran the facts over again in his head. Three deaths in just over one year. All violent. One was murder . . . all three could be murder. An abusive uncle who raped both male and female adolescence.

The phone rang and Bond stood up to answer it. It was Mallory. He was quick and succinct in his orders. Bond hung the phone up and looked at Q.

“Well?” the dark hair man asked.

“I’m no longer your body guard. I’m your captor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments Welcomed.


	3. The Dead Come to Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Bond find an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and encouragements. It will be rather slow for the first few chapters as all the characters get introduced and involved. Please be patient as this builds.

The Dead Come to Life

Mycroft Holmes was definitely a man of action. He did not sit around and wait for someone else to set the events into motion he did it himself. Although he didn’t enjoy physical exertion, he did choose to manipulate situations from behind the scenes.

That is what he had done now. He had informed Mallory of the false identity of the Quartermaster. He informed M that Peter Wilson had died twenty-one years ago in Sussex and that the man using that name now, while working for MI6, was a fraud. Mycroft Holmes didn’t tell Mallory that said fraud was his brother. He didn’t tell Mallory that Q had run away from his home fifteen years ago while leaving his family to believe he was dead.

That information would come out soon enough and no reason to release it now and make himself look . . . emotional. No, it would be better to have MI6 hold Sherrinford while he decides how to inform his parents and reunite his family. There was no other option. He needed to discover a way to ease his parents’ pain and bring the intelligent young man under his wing.

Mycroft had immediately had the conference rescheduled for later in the year. He would not be able to deal with intelligence gathering issues while he was manipulating his brother. For a brief moment, Mycroft wondered if he should include Sherlock in the information of the resurrection of their younger brother, but decided against it. Considering how Sherlock had taken the initial report of Sherrinford’s death, his rebirth might be detrimental to the recovering addict.

Mycroft had not wasted time at the Scottish resort. As soon as he had notified Mallory, he had his assistant make arrangement to fly himself and Sherrinford back to London. He had his suitcase packed and ready to leave when he knocked on the door to Sherrinford’s suite.

The door pushed open with the first rap of his knuckles. Mycroft opened the door further and looked into the Whiskey Suite with its tartans and elegant furnishings. The fruit basket that every member of the conference had delivered to their rooms had been picked at. One of the beds had been slept in. Dirty bar glasses could be seen sitting on the coffee table. The two men had been checked into the suite were not there.

Mycroft checked quickly. The closets were empty of their clothes and Sherrinford’s computer was not in the suite. Bond had whisked the Quartermaster away. Mycroft scowled. He wondered if this was ordered by Mallory or were the two men operating outside the orders of MI6. Whatever the situation, Mycroft was going to track his brother down. He had lost him once but he was not going to lose him again.

~Q~

Bond drove quickly back down A-8. He didn’t like that they were in an MI6 issued car, but Q had insisted he had disengaged the GPS signal. Bond would just have to trust the young man.

“Where are you taking me?” Q asked as he watched the countryside flash past the window.

“Where would you be the safest? MI6?”

“I don’t know. Mycroft obviously has already reached out to Mallory. Maybe my flat? Maybe Eastern Europe?” Q rubber his eyes with his finger, wiping the tears that threatened away.

“How much power does your brother have?” Bond asked considering his possible options.

“More than Prime Minister, probably.”

Bond took a quick look at the young man beside him. He had never heard Q ever mention his family but knowing what he knew of the strained relationship he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him was the fact that Q’s almost omnipotent brother never found Q before now.

“Who do you believe has control over Mycroft?” Bond asked hoping to find an ally.

Q looked up and out the window. Without hesitating he said, “My grandfather.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes. He’s hand over the operation of Carlyle International to my cousin, Norman, but he still is the power behind the throne.”

“How much control would he have over someone in the British government?” Bond was pulling together a plan.

“Carlyle International is the prime supplier of electronic and computer components to the British military and one of the subsidiaries is responsible for maintaining the servers used by Whitehall. Grandfather Archibald has tremendous power.”

“Good, we’ll start there.”

Q turned and looked at Bond.

“What do you mean, we will start there?”

“We will head to Sussex and speak to your grandfather. He will call Mycroft off and then we will be able to return to MI6 and get this sorted out.”

“You think I will be allowed to stay as Quartermaster after this gets out? I lied on governmental documents. I’ve lied about who I was. Where I came from. My entrance into Uni was a fabrication!”

“You don’t think others working for MI6 have mislead their handlers? I know of two members of your own department who have arrest records.”

“TJ and Margo, I know, for hacking but this is . . .”

“But nothing. We will stop Mycroft and Mallory and keep you as Quartermaster.”

Q hung his head down. His thumb pressed down the crease of his trousers. “Mycroft will want me to join him . . . he will insist that I work with him.”

“Well, it is time he learns he doesn’t always get what he wants.”

“Grandfather may insist I come and work for him, too.”

Bond hadn’t thought about that option. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

“Won’t happen either. I won’t let it happen. You are needed at 6. You must stay at 6.”

Q looked over at the blonde man. He had never heard Bond speak about him that way before. It was obvious that Bond had appreciated Q’s abilities. Bond had even bragged about Q’s skills on the computer and hacking, but Q had never heard Bond be so adamant about his place at MI6. The young man smiled slightly and turned to look out the window again.

“Okay.”

~Q~

John Watson looked down at the paper cup that held the cold bitter coffee. He had been holding the same cup for over an hour now. He was trying desperately to ignore Sherlock. The dark haired detective was ranting at Lestrade about Anderson and his forensic team. They had disturbed the dust around the dead body while gathering their evidence. Sherlock was berating Phillip about destroying valuable clues and generally being stupid when John’s mobile pinged in his pocket.

He slipped his hand into his jacket and removed the small phone. Looking at the name of the caller, John sighed heavily. Apparently, he was going to have to endure two Holmes today. He pressed the button and answered.

“Yes, Mycroft, we are at a crime scene. What is it?”

“John, I need you to listen to me carefully and do not waste my time asking questions.”

The soldier remained quiet. Fuming at the condescending tone of the man on the end of the phone.

“Very good, John.” Mycroft praised when he was met with silence. Maybe the good doctor was learning to listen to him. “You must not leave Sherlock’s side for a while. Day and night he must be watched.”

“What happened?” John’s protective nature towards Sherlock overrode his frustration at Mycroft.

“Information will be coming out in a few days that will most probably throw Sherlock into danger mode. I fear what my brother will do once he learns . . . once he hears . . . John, just stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

The call disconnected and John pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared down at the blank screen. What could cause Mycroft Holmes so much fear?

“John, I’m done here with these idiots. We need to go.” Sherlock’s voice pulled John back to the scene.

John looked up and around himself. Lestrade and Anderson were arguing in the corner of the room. The body was being lifted and set on a gurney for transportation.

“Did you solve it?” John asked.

“Not yet . . . I need to speak to the dustman about French cheese.”

John shook his head and decided to not try and make the connection between a dead body and cheese that had been disposed of.

“Yeah . . . sure . . . dustman.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. John glanced around trying to find someplace to toss his cold coffee. Not finding any, he set the cup down by the door and rushed out to follow the tall detective. In the back of his mind he wondered how in the name of all that is sane, how was he supposed keep an eye on Sherlock day and night? And what were they about to learn that would send Sherlock into possible taking drugs again?

~Q~

The Carlyle-Holmes estate wasn’t one large house as Bond had envisioned. Instead it was a cluster of several medium size homes nestled together with connecting enclosed walkways and corridors. Its architecture varied from Georgian to Bauhaus. It was incongruent but flowed and was attractive. The lawns were manicured and the formal gardens were laid out between the different buildings. The plantings helping to tie everything together.

“That is Grandfather’s.” Q pointed to the center building, the oldest looking and largest of the five different homes there.

The white limestone shined in the sunlight. It was almost blinding. The front doors were red and accentuated with black iron fittings. Bond pulled the car in front of the building. The tires crunching in the gravel drive. Q got out of the car and looked up at the two story building. The windows were dark still. Bond and Q had driven through the night to reach here. It appeared no one was awake yet.

Q paused and looked up at the house. He remembered it being bigger when he was child. He was always afraid to come here. His parents and brothers lived in one of the connecting houses to the side of the main house. He remembered the white limestone walls and green metal roof. His brother had told him it was copper but Q argued that it was the wrong color to be a copper roof. And the red door. It always had a red door. Q had asked once why a red door, and his father explained that Grandfather Archibald believed it would keep people away from the house. Q thought that was ridiculous. The house was four miles from its nearest neighbor. Who would be coming over to visit? People never came here.

Bond walked around the car and stepped up next to Q.

“Do you know what you are going to say?” Bond asked.

“I thought I would just tell him the truth. I mean everyone involved is dead now. What difference does any of it make now?”

“It would make a lot of difference to the old man to regain a grandson he thought was murdered.”

Q looked carefully at Bond then nodded his head. “I never thought I would ever be doing this.”

“Do you want to tell your father first?”

“He’s are not here . . .” Q waved over at one of the other houses. “They moved away before . . . before I left. They live in Cambridge. My mother used to teach mathematics.”

The red door opened and a man in a dark suit was standing with his hand on the doorknob. Q looked up at the older, grey haired man and smiled.

“Robert, you’re still here.” Q said taking a step forward.

“Master Sherlock?” The man seemed confused. “You’re not Master Sherlock.”

“No, I’m . . . maybe I should come in.” Q had climbed the five steps up to the door and held his hand out to the old man.

“I’m afraid, Mister Carlyle is not receiving visitors at this time.” The man said as he stiffened his back to stand up taller. He refused Q’s offered hand.

“Robert, I would like to see Grandfather, please.”

Robert, the butler, squinted his eyes and looked carefully at Q. Then he visible paled and stumbled backwards. Bond reached out and grabbed the man before he fell backwards onto the stone floor.

“Sherrinford?!!” Robert gasped.

“Yes, Robert. It’s me. I know this is a terrible fright but I really need to see Grandfather. Can you get him for me?”

“I . . . I . . . how? They said you were . . .”

Bond pulled the man into the house as Q followed. Bond glanced around and moved towards an open archway that led into a sitting room. Bond helped Robert sit on the antique sofa while Q poured the man a brandy. Q handed the man the snifter then sat down beside him.

“It was a mistake, Robert. I wasn’t killed. I ran away. I don’t know why the police decided I was dead. I’m okay . . .”

The old man reached up and touched Q’s face. The young man smiled and sat still while Robert’s fingers grazed down his face.

“Mister Archibald always said you were alive. He refused to believe you were dead. He tried to find you . . . he sent investigators looking for you.” Q smiled again. Robert took a drink of the alcohol then shivered. “I must tell Mister Archibald. He won’t believe it. He never thought he would see the day you returned.”

The old man stumbled to his feet then looked down at the glass, surprised by its presences in his hand. He glanced around, then handed it to Bond, before rushing from the room. Bond and Q shared a glance before the young man stood up and took the glass away from Bond. He returned it to the tray next to the lead crystal decanters.

Q went back and stood next to Bond. He looked up into the man’s vivid blue eyes.

“Tell me this is the right thing to do. I never thought it would be so . . . painful to them . . . I never thought my leaving would cause all this.”

“Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”

“Peter and Hanna.”

“You weren’t here when Hanna died, were you? You were a grownup and living a new life.”

“Yes.”

“You lost Peter when you young. You didn’t really understand the long term pain of not only their absence but also the loss of opportunities. Moments you could have with each other. Things you could had done together. A future you’ve planned for . . . a life for the two of you and now they are not there to share it with you. It is more than their death, Q, it’s all the chances to be together that are lost too.”

Q could see something behind Bond’s blue eyes. He could see something he never believed Bond had. Regret.

“I never thought of it that way. I spend most of my time with computers, 007. I didn’t really have a childhood like other children. Not really. I guess I never made the connection.” Q turned away and looked out the window at the green lawn. “I think this was a bad idea. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Bond stepped up behind the young man and slipped his arm around Q’s shoulder. The blonde could feel the young man instantly tense and try to pull away. Bond, not deterred, pulled the young man close to himself. Q could feel the warmth of Bond’s body next to his. For a moment he could feel relieved and relax then the fear took hold again and he stepped away from Bond. The operative let Q step away but he grasped hold of the man arm and maintained the connection between the two of them.

“I trust you with my life, Q. I know what you can handle and what you can not. I want you there talking to me in my ear. I want you in London working with me. I want you . . . I want you safe. We can do this. Together, we will do this.”

Q felt the agent’s grip on him tighten and it was reassuring. Q sighed and nodded.

“Thank you.”

The two men heard the approach of voices.

“Robert, what is so damn important that I must see these men.”

“Sir, I can’t tell you.”

Bond and Q turned to face the door. An elderly man sitting in a wheelchair was rolled into the room by Robert. Bond carefully looked the man over. He was thin like Q, but it appeared to be from illness and not natural build. He would have been a tall man if he was able to stand. His long legs were folded up and been awkwardly in the chair. He had long delicate fingers like Q, wrinkled now and bent with arthritis. His forehead was broad and his hair still had a hint of auburn mixed in with the grey. The old man’s eyes were still bright and intelligent. They moved quickly over the two men in front of them then paused over Q.

Bond watched as the recognition flooded the hazel eyes. Then the old man’s arms reached up and held out for Q. The young man stepped forward and wrapped himself in his grandfather’s arms. Q bending his body down to bury his face in Archibald Carlyle’s neck.

“Sherrinford . . .” Archibald cried out. “My boy . . . my beautiful boy . . . you’ve returned to me . . . I told them you would . . . I told them you weren’t dead.”


	4. A Price to Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandfather makes an offer to Q and Bond.

A Price to Pay

Normally, Bond would be enjoy being in the drawing room of the Carlyle-Holmes estate. It was a large room with a parquet floor of alternating colored wood inlay. The walls were sage green and the antique furniture was upholstered in gold silk damask. For a large room, it was still warm and cozy. Inviting and pleasant. Not normal for a two hundred year old home.

But Bond was not enjoying the decor. His focus was on the two men at the opposite end of the room. Q and his grandfather were speaking in hush tones. Bond could tell the very moment Q had told him about the rape by the expression on Archibald Carlyle’s face and Q bowed his head. He could see Q was crying. The old man reached out and wrapped his arms around Q’s shoulders.

Bond felt an unfamiliar urge to comfort the young man too. To protect and console him. It seemed foreign that he would have such possessive feelings for someone he only considered a coworker. Granted, the two had been dancing around with witty flirtations since their first meeting. Bond had even spent several moments pondering an athletic evening with Q while they were at Gleneagles, but he never considered himself enamored by the young man. It wasn’t as if he was developing feelings for the man.

Bond didn’t actually have a type, but he did have preferences in his bed partners. He preferred dark hair with pale skin. Beauty was always based on personal perceptions, but Bond enjoyed the slim athletic body of the long distance runner which Q obviously displayed. And Bond preferred intelligence. He needed his intellect stimulated as much as his libido. He wanted to be able to carry on a conversation with his bed partners as well as have sex with them. And there was no question about Q’s intelligence.

Bond’s unreasonable protective instinct grew stronger. He was now looking at Q as more than just a co-worker. He wasn’t a lover but he was someone Bond could enjoy. Someone whom would make Bond’s evenings more pleasurable. The thought of having Q’s lithe frame and pale skin in his bed made Bond’s cock twitch. Then the blonde man berated himself. He remembered why the two of them were there. Why they had driven the ten hours to reach the southern coast of England. This was not a pleasurable excursion. They were fighting to keep Q at MI6.

Q looked up at Bond and the operative stood and walked over to join the two men.

“Bond, Grandfather said he would help us but he wants something in return.” Q’s eyes were fixed on Bond’s.

Bond sat down and looked at the old man. He was familiar with the look in the older man’s eyes. The look similar to that of a seasoned politician or a successful business man. The willingness to use any situation for their benefit. No attempts at altruism.

“Someone tried to destroy my family. They murdered my son and my granddaughter. I was told they had killed Sherrinford, but thank God that was wrong.” He patted Q’s hands. “I want to know who did it and why.”

Bond looked over at Q’s expectant face. Then he turned back to Carlyle. “We are not the police.”

“The police couldn’t solve this. The police failed. But Sherrinford . . . is my grandson. He is intelligent and quick witted. He told me you are very intelligent too. You are fearless and good at solving problems.”

Bond looked at Q. He could see a slight curve to the young man’s lips. What Q didn’t tell the old man was Bond’s common way of solving problems was to blow them up.

“It was fifteen years ago. How could we possible find any new evidence that was over looked back in 2001? ”

“Fourteen years and two months. March 2002.”

The old man frowned and looked at a framed picture of a blonde haired girl in a school uniform.

“Hanna had been to Dover that day to watch the parades. She returned in the evening, but I didn’t see her. She was supposed to have dinner with the family. Her cousin said she wasn’t feeling well. Her mother went to check on her and found she was missing from her bedroom. A search was made but we could not find her. The police were called and the house and grounds were searched.” Carlyle took a deep breath. It was apparent he had repeated the story several times. “Her body was found a day later. Deep in the woods, behind the house.”

“Her father, Marcus was already dead when she was killed.” Q said reminding Bond that the rapist uncle couldn’t have killed his daughter.

Bond looked at Carlyle carefully as he asked. “You believe whomever killed Hanna also killed Marcus?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But the coroner’s report said his death was an accident.”

“Three people died within eighteen months of each other on this estate. All of them violent, all of them bloody. What are the odds only one was a murder and the other two were mere accidents? More likely all three were murders.”

“Why would the blacksmith’s son be murdered?” Bond asked.

“Have you seen a picture of the real Peter Wilson?”

Bond shook his head. Carlyle smiled and wheeled his chair over to a table with a large photo album on it. He picked up the album with its worn cover and returned to Bond and Q. He flipped open the book and pointed to a color photograph of two young boys. They were smiling at the camera. Both were dark haired and thin pale limbs.

“Which one is Sherriford and which one do you think is Peter?” Carlyle asked.

Q took a moment to remember which one was which. He remembered they looked similar but it wasn’t until that moment did he realize how similar they were.

Bond looked at the photo and shook his head. “They are very close . . . this one.”

The old man shook his head. Bond had gotten it wrong.

“Sherrinford is the one squinting. He refused to wear his glasses when he was younger. He was very obstinate as a child.”

Bond smiled. “Still is as an adult.”

“When Peter was killed, your parents finally spilt.” Archibald Carlyle looked carefully at Q. “Your father thought you were the boy retrieved from the pond when he first saw the body. He became very distraught. He came home and found you playing alone. Sherlock was out doing something with Violet. She didn’t include you. Signer became enraged. They argued and he left. He tried to take you, but I wouldn’t let him. When it was time for Sherlock to go to Cambridge, Violet returned to the university too. She was able to reestablish herself as a professor of mathematics. Signer didn’t even know you were left alone until that Christmas. He called me and wanted me to send you to him in Paris. I refused again. Then . . . then you disappeared. The police searched and found your clothes. They told me you were dead. I refused to believe them. Then within a month, Marcus was dead. His body in the mill pond. Then a year later Hanna.”

Memories came flooding back to Q. Memories of fights and yelling. His parents’ absence for long periods during his young life. How his stepmother hated it when Q played with Sherlock. The young man felt a familiar yet distant stab to his heart.

“So you believe someone killed Peter believing they had killed your grandson.” Bond said, summarizing Carlyle’s story. The old man nodded. “Then when they learned Q was still alive, they killed your son, Marcus and later Hanna.”

“It is the only thing that makes sense.” Carlyle said. He bowed his grey head. “Someone has taken so much from me and I don’t even know who.”

Q leaned over and touched the old man’s hand. “Grandfather, I’m not the detective . . . Sherlock is.”

“I’ve asked him to help but he has refused to speak to me. He blames me.” Carlyle looked up at his grandson. “Your parents do too. They won’t return here. I haven’t seen them in years. Not since the search for you was abandoned. Signer said it was my fault you were dead.”

Q felt a burning stab to his heart return. He was as guilty as the murderer of driving his family apart.

“If we discover who is to blame . . . who killed Hanna and maybe Marcus . . . you will help Q? You’ll stop Mycroft from ruining Q’s career at MI6?”

“If you can find the truth, I will do everything in my power to protect Sherrinford. All of the resources of Carlyle International will be at your disposal.”

Bond looked over at Q and nodded in agreement.

“Then I believe we have a mystery to solve, Q.”

~Q~

Mycroft was furious. Why couldn’t Mallory keep his agents on a shorter leash? Obviously, Bond was out of control. Running off with Sherrinford and disappearing like they did. He had to organize several people to search the CCTV feeds from various routes to trace the direction the car had gone. When it moved south of London, Mycroft didn’t need to search any longer. He knew exactly where his brother would go for help. To the one person he had little control over. His grandfather.

Mycroft knew he was now fighting a battle of time. He needed to control the release of the news of Sherrinford’s resurrection to his family. He believed Doctor Watson would be able to handle Sherlock until Mycroft could speak to him personally. The older Holmes knew he had to tell his parents first. They needed to know that there dead son was very much alive and seeking out members of his family. Mycroft was actually relieved that Sherrinford went to the old man first instead of their parents. Archibald Carlyle was a business man and predictable in his response. Mycroft’s parents would react on an emotional level to Sherrinford’s reappearance. Emotions were highly unpredictable and something Mycroft was ill prepared to deal with. It would take him more effort to calm his parents than anyone else he believed.

He tapped on the glass partition between his driver and the backseat of the limo. The driver rolled the divider down.

“Sir?”

“Detour, Owen.”

“Yes, sir. Cambridge?”

“Yes . . . how did you know?” Mycroft raised a curious eyebrow. He did not hire Owen for his empathy but for his driving skills.

“Miss Anthea warned me there might be a detour. I have mapped out separate travel routes just in case.”

Mycroft smiled. “Very good, Owen. Cambridge.”

At least Mycroft could depend on his staff to do as they were told, while if Mallory, from bloody MI6, couldn’t.

~Q~

The main house of the Carlyle-Holmes estate was oddly open and sprawling for a Georgian style building. It had been remodeled in the past and walls were removed to enlarge rooms and make the movement from one part of the house to other, smooth. Bond wondered when the various connecting covered walkways between the houses had been built. If they were include when the different homes had been erected or if the other houses had been separate and later connected to the main house. As it was, it a maze of buildings and hallways with varying construction from the grand to the art deco. Odd yet also incorporated. Bond didn’t feel an abrupt shift from one style to the next, but more of a melting from one’s esthetic into another. Having seen the house that Q had spent most of his childhood in, he could understand more clearing how Q’s mind worked. How it seemed to seamlessly flow from one project to another. How one solution to a problem brought added insight to other problems.

The four men were now in the house that looked somewhat Edwardian in style. It was the most removed design of the various buildings present. The rooms where smaller and the house was more claustrophobic. They smelled of dust and age.

“This was where Marcus, Dagmar and their two children lived.” Carlyle said as Robert stopped pushing his wheelchair. “After Hanna’s death, Dagmar became . . . despondent.”

“She was never very strong.” Q said as he rested his hand on Carlyle’s shoulder.

“I had to have her committed. Michael never forgave me.”

“Where is Michael now?” Q asked about his cousin.

“He lives with Norman. They built a home at the end of the park.” The old man pointed a thin bent finger out the window.

Bond stepped forward and looked across the vast green mowed lawn. About a half of mile to the south east was another house. It was white with tall dark windows. This was a modern home with more Scandinavian designs. Beyond the boxy house was the thin strip of blue water. The property ended at the sea.

“Practically every style of architecture is present on this property other than Victorian.” James said as he studied the building from the distance.

“There are Victorian buildings in the village. My family has always been admirers of architecture. The Neoclassic buildings burned down some time ago.” Carlyle said unconcerned.

“Grandfather . . . what did you want to show Bond and myself?” Q asked trying to stop the old man from fleeing back into his memories.

“Yes . . .” He waved his hand for Robert to push his chair into another room. Bond and Q followed him. There were several pieces of furniture under white dust cloths and the crystal chandelier was covered with a drape to protect it. Archibald Carlyle pointed to the corner and Robert pushed over to a large object covered with the white sheet. Carlyle pulled the cloth away and a hump backed trunk was sitting on a table.

“This was everything of Hanna’s I could rescue. Her school books, and journals. Her paintings and some of her toys. Her mother, Dagmar, destroyed everything else after she was murdered. Dagmar built a great fire in the lawn and threw as much on it as she could. Clothes, dolls . . . everything. She tried to throw herself on it too. After . . . after we stopped her and had a doctor look at her burns. . . I had to send her away. She is still alive at the home but she does not know where she is . . . she does not know who she is.” Bond noticed the lack of emotion to the old man’s voice.

Q opened the trunk and looked inside. The smell of ash and fire could still be smelled after all the years.

“Anything else you need. Any records or photographs . . . police reports . . . anything, I will get for you. Find out who tried to destroy my family and I will give you what you want.” Carlyle was pleading now.

“Yes, Grandfather, we will find out.” Q said as he looked at the old man.

Bond, looked around the vacant house. It felt as if it was whispering to him, but he just could not hear the words. James specialized in secrets, but he wondered how much more dangerous these secrets would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed. And next chapter, Sherlock learns his brother is alive. He doesn't handle it well.


	5. Night Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers his brother is alive.

Night Music

John Watson had often sat and just watched Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes it was while Sherlock was typing away on the computer, sometimes it was during an experiment. He was always amazed by the genius. The implacable concentration and the razor sharp perception. Sherlock’s eyes focused with a laser like intensity. The unemotional expression on the man’s face that belied the truth of his deep passion. Sherlock’s dark curls shifting and moving as the man’s head turned and ducked with each new deduction. Sherlock was a marvel to simply watch.

The more pleasant times when John would stare and wonder about his flat mate, were when Sherlock would play his violin. When Sherlock was not frustrated, the music could be quite lovely and soothing. Sherlock would draw out the most wonderful sounds from string and wood. Sounds that seemed to draw emotions deep and forgotten by the listener. John found these moments were always his most memorable and restful. Just sitting and listening to Sherlock play.

In all the hours, days, weeks and months that John had watched Sherlock, a single thought kept returning to him. _‘How could someone as gifted and intelligent and handsome as Sherlock Holmes, turn to drugs for solace?’_ John could never ask this question of Sherlock and Mycroft would never give a concise answer to the query.

Over the years that he had known Sherlock, a certain and unmistakable need to protect the younger man had developed in the older doctor/soldier. Some people had misinterpreted this emotion as love or infatuation on John’s part, but the blonde insisted it was just the need to protect Sherlock from Sherlock. John wanted to know . . . wanted to understand . . . why Sherlock was so lacking in self-preservation. The more John did to protect Sherlock it seemed, the more Sherlock recklessly behaved. As if he was testing to see what John’s limits would be at saving Sherlock. John had realized early on, his limits were infinite.

After the phone call from Mycroft, John watched the dark haired flat mate closer. He waited every day for the single bit of information that would plunge Sherlock into a spiral that would end up with a needle in his arm or the young man lying comatose in a hospital bed. It gnawed at the doctor, the waiting and watching. The knowledge and foreboding of a future disaster.

He sat in chair watching as Sherlock swayed gracefully to the music he was creating. Feeling as if he was being drawn along by the current of Sherlock’s own gravity. John sighed and leaned heavier on his hand. His eyes becoming burry as he stared at his friend.

John was not formally trained in music and only knew the most popular and frequently played songs, but Sherlock had a vast repertoire of songs he could play. Everything from the classics of Bach and Mozart to music of the Eagles and Queen. Today, Sherlock was playing something from Vaughan Williams. It was slow and moving. Growing and swaying cords that spoke of hope and loss and finally redemption.

John sat silently and listened. Watching as Sherlock moved with the music. His eyes closed as he stepped and swayed, oblivious of the furniture in the room yet never touching any of it. It was a marvel to watch. As it Sherlock inhabited his own world, danced to his own music and was free from the constants that held John to the earth.

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings for one last long drawn out note that seemed to hang in the air even after he had removed the horsehair from the catgut. Sherlock turned and looked at John. And there it was. That rare and remarkable moment when Sherlock would be completely open and visible to John. An honest smile and softness to his eyes that only John was blessed with seeing. The real Sherlock Holmes, as rare and priceless and ethereal as stardust.

Sherlock’s mobile rang in the man’s pocket and moment was gone. Sherlock immediately grabbed his phone and looked at the caller ID. He rolled his eyes and answered the call.

“Yes, Mummy.” His diction at conflict with the words. He gently set his violin down in its case. “What?!” Sherlock’s deep voice quickly took on the sound of fear.

John sat up and leaned forward. He could tell by the expression of Sherlock’s face something bad had happened to the man’s parents. The doctor quickly ran through a list of possible explanation. Heart attack, stroke, car accident, injury . . . death.

“I don’t . . . where is he?! . . . What do you mean, Mycroft doesn’t know?!! Where is my brother?!”

The mobile in John’s pocket pinged with a text message. John fumbled the phone out and looked at the message. ‘ _Danger night!’_ John looked back up at Sherlock. The future disaster was now.

~Q~

Mallory sighed as he looked at the third request for information regarding the whereabouts of 007 and the Quartermaster. He had already informed Whitehall twice that he did not know. That every tracking mechanism MI6 had in the car and on Q had been deactivated . . . probably by Q, himself. Attempts were being made but until Q turned the trackers back on, or Bond finally decided to call in, there was little chance of MI6 finding there rogue agent and wayward Quartermaster.

Mallory sat down and looked at the file that had been complied on Q, under the name of Peter Wilson. It was complete and flawless. There was no indication what so ever that it was a false identity. Mallory wondered for a moment if Mycroft Holmes had gotten the wrong information. TSS and R had searched for six hours now and had not found any indication of a death certificate for one Peter Wilson in Sussex. Mallory wondered how common that name could be. Holmes had to be mistaken, there could be no other explanation. Q was an exemplary member of MI6. He couldn’t possibly be a traitor.

Eve Moneypenny called Mallory through the intercom system.

“Sir, Tanner needs to speak to you.”

“Send him in.” Mallory set the file down and waited for the door to unlock and let his chief of staff in. Tanner entered Mallory’s office hurriedly. His face was flushed and he seemed quite upset. Mallory didn’t like the implications.

“Yes?” Mallory asked.

“Holmes is up to something, sir.” Tanner said as he handed a photocopy of an old newspaper article. “He is correct that about Peter Wilson being a dead boy, but he lied about how he knew Q was a fake.”

_“LOCAL BOY DROWNED-Peter Wilson, thirteen, of Carlton, Sussex, was found dead today in a pond on the Carlyle-Holmes estate . . .”_

Mallory looked up at Tanner. “R couldn’t find a death certificate or any formal records of the boy’s death.”

“On a hunch, I did a background check to see where Mycroft Holmes was living fifteen years ago. He was starting his political career but he listed Carlton as his home. I went to the local papers and found a hard copy of this article. The electronic copies though were missing this article. The computer records had been erased?” Tanner said as he leaned over Mallory’s desk. “Who would be better at that than our Q?”

“Bollocks! Who was this Peter Wilson boy? And the Carlyle-Holmes estate . . . was that Mycroft Holmes residence?”

“Yes sir, he was raised there by his parents. Archibald Carlyle is his paternal grandfather and Norman Carlyle of Carlyle International is Holmes’ cousin.” Tanner finally leaned back and sat down in a chair. “Peter Wilson appears to have been a neighbor or the child of a servant according to a former employee of the newspaper. He barely remembers the drowning. There is no other electronic record of the boy. Q did a very thorough job of erasing the old and substituting himself. R and I can’t find any discrepancies.”

“But why? Why would Q lie about who he is and where he came from? He has been working here for years. He’s been involved in several sensitive operations and never once acted inappropriate. If he is working for someone, he is doing a piss poor job of sabotage. If he is truly dedicated to MI6, then why did he deceive us about his identity? Who is the real Q?”

“Sir, I found another article in the same newspaper, eight months after this article. In fact there were numerous articles about the youngest Holmes boy disappearing and feared dead. He was fourteen. The age matches Q’s. Our Quartermaster might be the missing Holmes.”

Mallory considered that piece of information. It would explain how Mycroft Holmes knew right away that Q was not Peter Wilson. It would also explain why Holmes was so desperate to find the young man now that he had disappeared with Bond. It would also explain why Q and Bond had vanished.

“Get me a photograph of the missing Holmes boy. Let’s see if Mycroft’s long lost brother has been hiding in plain sight in TSS.”

~Q~

Bond and Q had been up for thirty-five hours straight. They had left London the day before at six and driven to Scotland. Only to turn around and drive ten hours back to Sussex after Q had been discovered by his brother. Then Q’s grandfather had kept the two men up explaining family history to them. It wasn’t the first time Bond had to be awake for more than thirty hours, but that had been on missions. Without the shooting and running and fighting, the lack of adrenaline wasn’t helping to keep the man awake. He tried to stay focused as they walked from one section of the house to another but his eyelids kept sagging. And he fought off yawning in front of the old man.

Archibald Carlyle had moved Q and Bond into the newer portion of the bizarre house. It was the portion that was definitely Bauhaus inspired. The house had the smooth straight lines of the German architecture. There were numerous large windows and light flooded into the front room. The walls were a teal blue with a black and white tile floor. The furniture also matched the style of the house. Art Deco, large and bulky.

Q had dove head long into the project to discover who may have killed his cousin nearly fifteen years before. He had tacked up photos of every member of the family along with a brief description of them on the teal walls. There was a map of the estate and the nearby village. The roads leading in and the dense forest surrounding the grounds.

“Q, this is a ridiculous project. We’ll never be able to figure out who the killer is after all this time.”

Bond poured himself another cup of tea from the service. Robert had brought them their afternoon tea with jam sandwiches. Bond had quickly drunk the tea and wolfed down three sandwiches why Q kept working.

“We will have an advantage over the police.” Q said as he took another sip of overly sweet tea.

“What?” Bond said as he looked at the different pictures on the wall.

“They believed it was a stranger. I believe it was a family member.”

“It could just as easily been a stranger as any one of the family members.”

“No . . . I don’t think so. We are pretty isolated down here. Carlton is the village and it’s three miles away from the property line. The farms surrounding the house are tenant farms for the estate. It’s a very close knit community. If there had been a stranger anywhere around, the locals would have known and told the police immediately after Hanna’s death.”

“The person could have walked in.”

“The properties ends at the sea to the south. The village is on the northern edge of the property. East and west, farms. No stranger could have made it all the way to the house without being seen at least once, if not more times . . . No, it had to be someone here. Someone close.”

“Carlyle will not be happy to learn it was one of his family that is responsible for Hanna’s death.” Bond yawned.

“My grandfather is a pragmatist. He will look at the facts and deal with the consequences.”

James collapsed on the sofa and watched Q. The young man was reading something on his computer screen. He reached for the tea cup and took a drink, then went to set it back down. Before he could set the cup in the saucer, he dropped the cup. The dark tea splashed on the black and while tiles, spotting Q’s trousers.

“What is it?” James asked sitting forward.

“Hanna . . . I’m reading the initial police report.”

“Yes . . .” Bond stood and moved to read over Q’s shoulder.

“She wasn't just murdered . . . I never knew. It was never reported in the papers. I never saw this before.”

“What happened, Q?” Bond started to quickly scan the report and saw what Q had read. The sandwiches in his stomach wanted to exit.

“She was burned to death . . . They tied her to a stake and burned her . . . like a witch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcomed and enjoyed. I do not have a beta and if you catch a mistake, please let me know. Won't be able to up date for a few days. Off to see Ben Whishaw in the Crucible.


	6. The Monsters in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Q each have monster they have to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an emotional chapter. WARNING. Description of a rape. If you don't want to read it, skip the italic portion.

The Monsters in the Dark

It was late, past midnight, and Sherlock was still pacing madly through the flat. John was sitting on the couch watching his friend, his fear and concern mounting with every step Sherlock took.

“It’s late, John. You have clinic in the morning. You should go to bed.” Sherlock said nervously, not watching his flat mate’s expression.

“I’ve already called in. I won’t be going in.”

“Why? . . . We don’t have a case going on . . . you should go in. Go to bed, John.”

“No . . . not until you tell me what is going on. What is wrong with Mycroft?”

It had been hours since Sherlock had received the phone call from his mother and John had received the cryptic text from Mycroft. Sherlock refused to speak to John right after the call. He had rushed into his bedroom and locked the door. He finally came out two hours later after John had threatened to kick the door down. Since then, Sherlock had been tense and unresponsive to questions.

“Mycroft?! Why would anything be wrong with him?!”

“I heard you ask where your brother was. You were upset by something he had done. What happened?”

“Fatcroft is probably starting a war somewhere or backing a coup. I don’t know and bloody well don’t care where he is.” Sherlock kept pacing.

“Then why did you ask about him?”

“I wasn’t asking about him.”

“You said, ‘Where’s my brother’ . . . oh no, there’s another.”

Sherlock paused and looked confused for a moment at John’s statement.

“Of course there’s another . . . oh, I never mentioned him.”

John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “No, you didn’t. What happened? Is he alright?”

Sherlock turned away before the doctor could get a good look at him. The tall detective shoved his shaking hands into his jacket pockets.

“He was dead, but he is not now.”

John took a moment to comprehend the awkward comment.

“He faked his death . . . without telling you . . . you didn’t know he fooled you? How long did he make you suffer? Two years?”

Sherlock stopped again and looked back over his shoulder at his friend. He could see the anger in John’s eyes. The man’s set jaw and thin lips.

“Please, John, not that again! I’ve apologized a thousand times!”

“No, more like fifty-five, but keep going . . .”

John realized he shouldn’t take vindictive enjoyment in Sherlock’s pain. But if the man felt one ounce of the pain and loss the doctor felt at losing Sherlock, then he would have to thank this nameless brother.

“I was away at school . . . Sheriford was younger, fourteen . . . his friend had just died, drowned . . . I didn’t go home to check on him . . . I left him alone.” Sherlock gave up his pacing and flopped into his leather chair. “They found his clothing, in the basement in the furnace. They were bloody and torn . . . there was . . . biological material on it.”

John wrinkled his brow at the phrase. He had heard it used before but it meant . . . John shuttered.

“Semen . . . not your brother’s.”

“The tests were inconclusive. The police kept the information away from the family but I acquired a police report. My little brother had been attacked and . . . the body was never found. I thought he was dead.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifteen years.”

John bowed his head. Fifteen years his friend had mourned a dead brother. Fifteen years, Sherlock believed he had lost his sibling. Sherlock would have only been seventeen when Sherrinford had disappeared. Not old enough really to cope with the devastation of such a loss. The idea his brother had been raped and murdered.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John said raising his head.

“Mycroft and my parents never knew about the . . . the rape. I never told them. We just went on as if nothing had happened. We didn’t speak about it. We didn’t want to acknowledge we had failed him.”

“What do you mean? You were at school, how could you have stopped it?”

“We were all gone . . . my mother and I were at Cambridge. I was a student and she was teaching. Mycroft had already started working for the government and Father . . . Father was in France. One of the many trial separations for my parents. Sherrinford was at Grandfather’s, in Sussex. He was in the care of our uncle . . . I knew the man couldn’t be trusted but . . . I didn’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock leaped to his feet and rushed towards the door.

“I NEED TO GO OUT!”

“NO, SHERLOCK . . . WAIT!”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled the man back. Suddenly, Sherlock spun and brought his fist up quick and hard. John was completely unprepared for the attack. The blow landed hard just above his jawline. John stumbled backwards and crashed on the floor. He rolled over into the sitting position, his hand clasping his throbbing cheek. When John was able to focus his eyes again and look up. Sherlock was gone. The door of the flat was open and the sound of the front door slamming shut reverberated up the staircase.

~Q~

Q shifted in the bed. He hadn’t had nightmares in several years but tonight they returned.

_He couldn’t see him but he could smell him. That was most oppressive thing about him. The smell. Sweat, yeast and sour breath. Alcohol and stale cigarettes. It was dark and Marcus was hiding in the shadows. Q tried to run. He tried to hide from the monster. Q was a young man again and Marcus was taller than him. Stronger than him. Q had told him what he saw and if he hurt Hanna again, he would tell the police. Marcus laughed at him. He always laughed at him. Q could only see his eyes. He was going to hurt Q. He was going to kill him._

_Q ran in his dream. He was running through the dark forest. The trees were coming alive. Their limbs reaching for him. Holding him so Marcus could catch up. Q started to beg. He pleaded with the trees to let him go. Let him escape. Marcus kept coming. He kept getting closer._

_Q felt the man’s sweaty hands on him. He felt the fear and humiliation. Why?! Why was he doing this to the boy? Now, Q was watching Marcus from a distance. He watched as Marcus pushed the fourteen year old boy down. Tore his clothes. Pushed his body into the dirt as he pulled the boy’s legs apart. Q heard the boy begging and knew what was going to happen next. He knew what was going to happen to boy. Then he heard the high pitch scream . . ._

“GET AWAY FROM ME! STOP! DON’T, PLEASE, GOD, DON’T!”

He sat up in his bed shouting. His body racked with pain and fear. Q was trying to free his limbs from the tangle of sheets when he saw a shadow approach the bed. Q screamed again and tried to push away. Tried to flee. He screamed again when strong arms wrapped tightly around his body.

“GET OFF ME! DON’T . . . DON’T HURT ME!”

“Q . . . it’s me! Calm down! You’re safe! I won’t let anyone hurt you!” James kept his arms around the young man, pinning Q’s arms to his sides. James pulled the frightened man closer and started to talk softer. "You're safe . . . I’ve got you . . . no one is going to hurt you now.” James tried to reassure.

James could feel Q’s heart beating wildly in his chest. The young man’s skin cold with a sweat. Q’s whole body trembled with fear. James kept his arms wrapped protectively around Q’s body.

“I will protect you . . . I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

Q finally recognized the voice. The soft deep round words of James. Q bowed his head and rested it on James’ shoulder. Then as the fear slipped away from him, shame washed over the young man and Q began to cry.

“I’m sorry . . . please, just leave me alone . . . I sorry I woke you . . .” Q tried to pull back, but James held on to him.

“No, it’s alright, Q.” James tried to twist Q to lay back down. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m pathetic . . .”

“You are not.” James growled. He pulled the young man back up and pulled him tighter to his body. “You are anything but pathetic. You are strong and intelligent. What happened to you was not your fault. It was never your fault.”

Q slipped his arms around James’ shoulders and clung to the other man.

“I ran away . . . I didn’t stop him . . . I was a coward . . .”

“You were fourteen. How were you supposed to stop him? He abused you. He battered you. You are not to blame for what happened Q. And it is not what defines you, do you understand me.” James was able to pull the young man into his lap. His hand moved up and cupped the back of Q’s head and pulled it rest on his shoulder again. “I have never felt safer than I do with you as my quartermaster, Q. You are brilliant and brave. You don’t let me or any of the other double ‘O’s boss you around. You are fearless.”

Q mumbled something inaudible into James skin, but he didn’t try to pull away. Bond held the young man close. His hand gently petting through Q’s sweat soaked curls. The two sat there quietly together until James could feel Q’s heart slow to a normal beat.

When Q started to pull away again, James was hesitant to let him go. He found the warmth of the young man next to somehow calming.

“I should be alright now. You can go back to sleep.” Q said trying to duck out of Bond’s embrace.

“I don’t believe either one of us will be getting much sleep now. How about some tea?”

“I think that would be a very good idea.” Q finally slipped out of James’ grasp.

He stood up on shaky legs and paused for a moment to be sure he wouldn’t fall. James noticed Q’s weakness and quickly stood. He wrapped his arm around Q’s waist again and supported the young man.

“I’m okay.” Q protested.

“Let me be the judge of that. The drop after an adrenalin rush can be substantial.” James said. His fingers moved to slip under the edge of Q’s t-shirt and brush against Q’s cool skin. “A cup of tea would do wonders right about now.”

Q laughed sadly. “You sound like me, you know.”

The young man tried to smile. James leaned forward and kissed Q’s forehead. He pulled back suddenly. He didn’t know why he did it. It just seemed like the appropriate thing to do. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Q duck his head.

“You must think of me as a child.” Q said trying to walk away from James.

James kept his arm around Q’s waist and fell into step with him. The older man knew that ‘child’ was not what he was thinking.

~Q~

John sat waiting in the darkened flat. He had left the electric lights off but the red glow from the coals in the fire place played across his face. John sat in Sherlock’s chair, staring at the door. He didn’t know when Sherlock would return from his excursion into the night, but he knew eventually, Sherlock would return. Then John would kill him. Or if not kill him, repay him for the ache in his jaw.

It was almost dawn. The weak pre-dawn light was beginning to invade the flat through the windows. The small fire was no longer keeping the early morning chill from the room. John waited. His anger slowly giving way to worry and fear. Realization that the timing of Sherrinford’s disappearance and Sherlock’s beginnings with drug experimentation were too close to be a coincidence. John wondered how the mysterious brother had reappeared. How had Mycroft known of Sherrinford rebirth, and why he hadn’t said more to John? Why hadn’t he warned him properly about what was going to happen? Maybe Mycroft deserved a punch in the face too.

John heard the front door open and the off cadence of footfall. He leaned back into the seat and rested his head on his knuckles. He wanted to appear nonchalant. Indifferent to his flat mate’s return, just before he attacked him.

He listened as Sherlock started to climb the stairs, then stumble. John could hear Sherlock pause on the stairs then start to climb again, more carefully. He could see the man’s dark shadow round the corner and stop. John was visible to Sherlock from their different positions within the flat. Sherlock hesitated, then continued walking up the stairs and into the sitting room.

John remained sitting as Sherlock hovered near the door.

“What is it this time? Morphine or cocaine?” John asked dryly.

Sherlock just stood watching him. John asked again.

“Morphine or cocaine?”

“Heroin.”

John leaped to his feet and Sherlock fell backwards into the wall. His head hitting the wall hard. Sherlock’s eyes were wide with fright and his thin frame trembling. It made John stop. John looked his friend over carefully.

“Do we need to take you to hospital?”

“No . . .”

“Do you have any more on you? Do I need to search you?”

“No . . .” Sherlock was almost whispering his replies.

“Are you going to do this to me again?”

“I don’t . . . no, John.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then John nodded his head as if he had come to a decision. Fear shot through Sherlock.

‘ _No, no . . . don’t leave me . . . please, John, forgive me . . . don’t leave!’_ Sherlock thought desperately. He couldn’t bring the words to leave his mind.

“Bed.”

“Www . . . what?!” Sherlock weaved slightly. He held his hand out to brace himself against the wall.

“You kept both of us up all night. I’m going to toss you into your bed and then I’m going to mine to get some sleep. When we wake up, you will give me a full explanation and apology.”

Sherlock blinked. ‘ _John’s not leaving me!’_ was all he could think.

“I’m sorry . . .”

“Save it. You can get it tattooed to your forehead.”

John grabbed Sherlock by his elbows and steered him down the hallway to his bed room. He helped his friend remove his jacket and lay down on the bed. Sherlock reached out and took John’s wrist.

“Stay.”

John looked down at him. “What . . . you want me to sit with you?”

Sherlock looked pleadingly up at John. Why couldn’t John understand? Why did John need him to say it?

“Just . . . never mind John.” Sherlock rolled over and away from John’s confused blue eyes. The tall detective curled up into a ball and hid his face into the pillows.

John stood watching the younger man for a moment.

“Okay . . . good night, Sherlock.”

“Good day, John.” Came the muffled response from the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just got back from New York City and the Crucible with Ben Whishaw. He is such a wonderful actor. The cast of the that play is also outstanding. If you are ever lucky enough to get to see him in person you should try to go. He is truly one of the greatest actors of our generation.


	7. Waking to the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and Q wake to face their demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of action in this chapter but more underlying truths come out.

Waking to the Truth

Q sat in his pajamas working. He couldn’t return to bed after his nightmare. He and James had shared a mug of tea in the small kitchen. James had walked the young man back up to his bedroom but Q had paced in his old bedroom for an hour before he returned back down stairs to work. He had emptied the trunk of its contents. Q had sorted through the clothes twice before setting them aside. He looked through the photos and left those in a stack next to his computer to scanned later.

Q was now reading through Hanna’s diary and marking specific pages for scanning. He felt a wave of guilt as he read the pages just after his disappearance. Hanna had been so frightened after he had left. She was positive her father had killed him. Q wiped his eyes.

He reread the portions of her diary where she had documented, in code, when her father had assaulted her. Q could make these out by her shaky handwriting. She would talk about dying in these entries. She would say the monster had come for her. The monster had hurt her. Q could feel the man’s hands on him again, as he read the passages.

Q heard the patter of bare feet across the tile floors as the sunlight started to warm the room. James came in and looked at the separate piles of notes, clothes and photos.

“You’ve been up for a while . . .” It was more of a statement than a question.

“I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Bond looked around.

“Breakfast?”

“Tea . . .”

Bond walked into the small kitchen and started the kettle. Q’s eyes followed him through covert glances.

Q was relieved that Bond hadn’t tried to touch him again. Q couldn’t understand why the previous night, after his nightmare, he had welcomed James’ touch. Normally he avoided any contact with another person fervently. While in school, he had been in a relationship with a young woman for six weeks. During that time, he could only work himself up to holding her hand and two rather chaste kisses. She had recommend he try men next time.

The first few months after he started his advanced degree, he tried with another student. A young man with blonde hair. Q panicked and kicked the man between his legs when he tried to grope Q’s groin while they were kissing. The relationship ended bitterly. After that, Q quit trying to have relationships.

But last night, or more exactly, early that morning, Q not only allowed James to touch him but reached back for the man. Bond had been strong yet gentle, he had held Q without restraining the frightened man. He remembered how it felt to be held by another person for the first time in a very long time. Q found the warmth of Bond’s body reassuring. Comforting. Q was confused. Of all the people he should be frightened of, a trained assassin should be top of the list, but Bond made Q feel safe. He was a calm in the storm of Q’s memories. The thought of James’ warmth surrounding him again brought both yearning and fear to Q. Fear the Q was allowing himself to be harmed again.

Bond returned with a mug of tea and set it down beside Q, jostling the young man back from his memories. Bond picked up a tattered book that was sitting on a pile of other books and magazines.

“The Art of the Medieval Torture Chamber” Bond read the title. “Odd reading for a teenage girl.”

“I believe it was her father’s. He was a history enthusiast. He considered himself an expert on feudal England.”

Bond started to thumb through the pages of the old book. He paused at one page and opened the book further to read the page carefully.

“I don’t believe so . . .”

“What?” Q looked up from the pages he was scanning into the computer.

“She wrote notes here.” Bond twisted the book so Q could see the page.

Q took the page and looked at the handwriting. After spending the morning reading her diary, Q knew it was her handwriting. It was a page on _Trial by Water._ Q read Hanna’s notation.

Water Peter Wilson, 21 February.

“That was the day he died.” Q said.

Bond turned the book back and looked at the page. He read the description of the torture. Then he flipped through to another page and turned it so Q could read it.

Fire Joshua Blake, 15 September

Then Bond flipped to another page.                       

Stone, Paul Cartwright, 5 April

Q knitted his brow and shook his head. He had never heard of the two men. Joshua and Paul. He looked back up at Bond.

“I don’t know.”

He turned back to his computer and opened a new screen. He typed in the name of Joshua Blake and the date 15 of September. Immediately, several hits came up. There were numerous news articles from eighteen years before, in 2001 of a young man name Joshua William Blake, age seventeen, whom had been raped and murdered. His body was found in the marshlands to the west of York. His skin had been blistered from multiple burns.

Q shivered as he read the report out loud to James. The agent moved closer and slipped behind Q’s back. Q moved quickly to the side to give Bond access to the computer while pushing himself further away from the man. James typed in Cartwright’s name and the date of 5 April. Another series of newspaper articles appeared from 2000. Paul Andrew Cartwright was a twenty year old man who had been found in a quarry near Wexford, Ireland. He had been crushed under numerous stones. The police didn’t want to speculate on the circumstances of Cartwright’s death but the stones were not arranged haphazard.

“Two murders . . .” Q whispered. “Why did Hanna start tracking murders?”

“Probably she was tracking a serial killer.”

“A serial killer?” Q asked disbelieving.

“Yes, and she may have found him.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The different ways they died. Drowning, burning, crushed under stones . . . all medieval methods of testing for witches.”

“Hanna was burned at the stake . . .” Q looked up into James’ face.

“The classic death of a witch.”

~Q~

John stood in the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock had slept through the night and was still asleep. John watched Sherlock for a few moments. The doctor stepped into the room and went to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked down at the sleeping detective.

Sherlock’s face was relaxed. His normal expression, created by tense muscles was replaced by the boyish face of the younger man. Sherlock’s plump lips were parted and soft, slow breathes passed over them. His skin was smoothed over the high cheek bones. The black eyelashes were a smudge against the white skin. He appeared to John to be more like a boy inhabiting a man’s frame.

John couldn’t control himself. He pushed an errant curl off the younger man’s forehead. Sherlock hummed and shifted his body. He moved and curved his body around John’s hips. The doctor slowly, softly dragged his fingers through the man’s hair as Sherlock sighed.

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes begin to move rapidly underneath closed eyelids. The doctor had never seen Sherlock wake before. It was interesting and compelling. The relaxed muscles began to tighten. The lips began to pout. Sherlock’s body flexed and shifted.

“Jawn . . .” Sherlock’s voice raspy with sleep.

“Right here, Sherlock.”

John watched as a blush tinted the younger man’s cheeks. He blinked rapidly then opened his eyes fully. He looked up at John then realized his body was curved around the man sitting on the edge of his bed.

“I . . . Oh . . .” Sherlock started to roll away from John, but the older man gasped Sherlock’s shoulder and held him in place.

“Were you dreaming?”

“Why would ask that?” Sherlock looked up in to the calm face of the doctor.

“You called out my name.”

“Oh . . . I was . . . we were . . . it was an old case.” Sherlock lied. He couldn’t tell his friend that he had frequent and vivid dreams about the two of them being together.

John just nodded his head, believing Sherlock once again. Sherlock blinked again, forcing his eyes to focus on the other man. John’s calm countenance and relaxed frame. Sherlock want to reach out and touch John’s face, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he let one finger drag lightly over the outside seam of John’s trousers.

“I know how it feels now . . .” Sherlock said softly. John raised an eyebrow. “I know how you felt when you thought I was dead and then when I came back.”

John leaned away from Sherlock as his expression hardened. Sherlock continued.

“I never thought, John . . . It didn’t occur to me that I might be causing you to do something to harm yourself.”

“You mean like taking up heroin or cocaine?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“I’m am sorry.”

“Was this the reason you started taking drugs?” John asked. Sherlock nodded his head.

“I started with morphine to help me forget about Sherrinford. Then I used cocaine to focus, so he wouldn’t intrude on my thoughts when I needed to work.”

“Well, my self-destruction took on a more final solution than your preferred seven percent solution.”

Sherlock locked his eyes onto John’s.

“Your gun?”

“Greg Lestrade had to take it away from me. He was afraid I would use it . . . I considered it several times.”

Sherlock felt his insides twist angrily. The thought he had done something that would have cause John that much pain was aberrant.

“John . . .”

The doctor could see the pain expression on Sherlock’s face. Even after everything Sherlock had done to him, John still couldn’t bring himself to prolong the man’s pain.

“You’ve tipped your hand, you know.” Sherlock knitted his brow in confusion at John’s statement. “Empathy.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

“You are showing empathy. A sociopath, even a high functioning sociopath, is unable to show empathy. Now, that I know the truth, you can’t use that as an excuse whenever you choose to be a dick.” John tried to lighten the mood.

“It seems you are the only person I have . . . emotions for. I believe you might be my Achilles’ heel, doctor. I never want to hurt you . . .”

“I’m sure your brother didn’t want you to start using drugs. What are you going to say to him, when you see him?”

Sherlock paused then rolled away from John. His feet landing on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Sherlock stood and walked over to his wardrobe. His black suit rumbled and wrinkled, having slept in it the night before. Sherlock removed his jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

“I don’t know.” He removed his shirt and pulled on an old torn t-shirt, he like to lounge in. He slipped his blue silk dressing gown on over his shoulders. “It’s a moot point anyway. Mycroft, apparently lost him again.”

“Again? So quickly?”

John watched as Sherlock removed his trousers while his back was turned to the doctor. The familiarity between the two men didn’t make this an awkward situation. Sherlock grabbed a pair of clean pajama bottoms and slipped them on over his long lean legs.

“When my parents called, they didn’t know where Sherrinford was. Mycroft had seen him, but the man escaped his grasp before Mycroft could return him home.”

“Then why did he get everyone’s hopes up? Why was the urgency?”

“Apparently, Sherrinford’s resurrection was going to be intimate and he wanted to warn us.”

“Do you know where Mycroft saw him?”

John followed Sherlock out of the bedroom and into the sitting room.

“Mycroft was supposed to be in Scotland at some kind of conference. He was to be there for three days, but he left the conference and met with our parents after the first day.”

“So your brother was in Scotland?”

“Most probably. And he was able to elude Mycroft quickly. Mycroft felt the need to inform my parents immediately therefore Sherrinford’s location will soon be known to everyone. Therefore, my brother has been living openly but yet still secretively.”

“You mean like an undercover spy. A mole hiding in plain sight.” John suggested.

Sherlock paused and looked at John.

“Say that again!”

John stopped and stared at Sherlock. “What? Undercover spy? Hiding in plain sight?”

“John! John! John! Once again you are the conductor of light. Spy! And that would make perfect since. Where else could he go? Who else would have the power to stop Mycroft?”

“Sherlock what are you saying?”

“I know where to look for Sherrinford.”

~Q~

There was a knock on the outside door for the house Q and Bond were sharing. Bond went to open the door. A man roughly in his late thirties was standing on the porch. He was tall and lean, with blue grey eyes. His cheek bones were sharp under pale ivory skin. He had auburn hair, thin and wispy. He held his hand out to James.

“Norman Carlyle, Ford’s cousin.”

James shook the hand but didn’t back out of the doorway to let the man enter. That seemed to confuse Norman, who had already started to walk forward only to have his route blocked by the blonde.

“Ah . . . is Ford here?”

“Yes, he’s working. Can I help you?”

“I doubt it. I mean . . . you’re not my long lost dead cousin brought miraculously back to life.”

Bond thought for a moment if he should close the door or let the man in to see what Q was doing.

“Please wait here and I will go get . . . Ford.”

Bond didn’t like the feel of that name in his mouth but it was better than Sherrinford. He opened the door further and let the man step over the threshold, but didn’t close the door behind him. Bond stepped over to the archway that led into the sitting room where Q was working. He blocked Norman from coming into the room, but he was sure the man probably saw what was up on the walls.

“Q, there is a Norman Carlyle to see you.”

Q’s head popped up and he smiled. He stood up quickly and came over to the archway. The man standing behind Bond gasped when he saw Q.

“It’s true . . . your alive!”

“Yes, it’s me . . .” Q smiled.

The man tried to push pass Bond to pull Q into a hug, but Bond noticed Q suddenly tense. He put out his arm and blocked Carlyle from getting any closer to the young Quartermaster.

“FORD!” Norman shouted, but Q only held out his hand for the man to take.

Carlyle wrapped Q’s hand with both of his and held it tight.

“Oh God, Ford! What happened?! Where have you been?!”

“I’m sorry, Norman. I just . . . I couldn’t stay when I was young . . . you know how things were.”

Norman nodded his head. “Your parents? . . . of course . . . and Uncle Marcus wasn’t the best guardian.”

Bond looked at Q for an introduction.

“James, this is my cousin Norman, he is my Uncle Garrison’s son. He now works with Grandfather. He is the managing director of Carlyle International.”

“Michael live here too, you know.” Norman said still hanging onto Q. “But don’t expect a warm welcome. Marcus was accused of killing you but . . . no body, no crime . . . he also heard you accuse Marcus of . . .”

Bond was surprised to actually see the other man blush. Q pulled his hand away from Norman and took a step backwards.

“I don’t know why he should be angry with me. I didn’t harm him. I just tried to stop . . .”

“I think Michael still worships his father. You know he died when Michael was still only seventeen.” Norman looked over Q’s shoulder and at the walls of the room. He saw the pictures of the family members and maps of the grounds. “What are you doing?”

“Grandfather wants me and James to writer a history about the family.”

“A history? Like a memoir?”

“Yes and no. Not just of him but of the whole family. My parents, your parents. Uncle Marcus and Aunt Dagmar.”

“Is that what you do . . . writer, I mean.” Norman asked.

“I am involved with data collection and distribution. James is the writer. We work together.”

Norman nodded. “I see. Were you going to get my permission to write about me and my family?”

“James and I only just started yesterday. We are only just setting up. Then I was going to sit everyone down and explain what Grandfather had planned. I have been in contact with him for several years now. He kept my existence a secret per my request. He told me he wanted to do a complete family history and so James and I came down. But no one is supposed to know I’m here, please.”

“Not even your brothers?”

“Especially not them.”

“I see . . . well, of course . . . I’m just so happy to know you are truly here and . . . ALIVE! Amazing!”

He reached forward again to hug Q but the young man took another step back. Norman nodded his head and turned to leave. Bond started to follow him out, when the man turned back.

“I know you want to keep it a secret but Michael already knows . . . would you consider coming to dinner tomorrow night? . . . Over at our house?”

“Yes, that would lovely. Thank you.” Q said.

Norman Carlyle smiled again and left. Bond closed the door behind him. He followed Q back into the sitting room and watched as the young man started typing again.

“You’re not going to tell them you are looking for Hanna’s killer?”

“Not when I think one of them could be it.”

“But what about the serial killer she was tracking?”

Q looked up at the man. “Far more likely it was one of my family than a stranger who came in here. Maybe it is just a coincidence. Or maybe the killer knew Hanna was following a serial killer and tried to make her death look like one of his. Either way, it would be better to lie to them.”

Bond nodded his head. He started to pick up one of the reports Q had complied when he stopped and looked at the young man.

“You wouldn’t let Norman hug you.”

Q kept typing. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “No . . . I don’t like being touch.”

Bond sat down with the report and started to read the first page, then paused. “But last night . . .”

“It was an extraordinary situation, Bond. It should never happen again.”

Q still did not look at the other man. James studied him for a moment then returned to reading the report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments and kudos. It makes writing easier when I know people are interested in the story. This is a different type of story for me, I hope you stick with it.


	8. Family Traits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James meets more members of the Carlyle-Holmes family and another secret comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and encouragement. This story is very heavily weighted plot, but there will be some romance too. I'm working on those chapters.

Family Traits

Norman Carlyle’s house had a nice open floor plan with clean straight lines. Q would admit it would be the perfect house for him. Modern and functional. The walls were white and the wood accents were yellow maple. The front door led into a long hallway with two rooms off each side of it. The hallway led into a large room that was kitchen, dining room and sitting room altogether. The back wall of this room was a bank of twelve foot windows that looked out over the lawn and down to the cliffs and the sea. Light and spacious, with no places for monsters to hide in.

The four men sat around the maple table in the dining area. It had been a good meal of steak and they were now sipping the last of the red wine Norman had opened up for the dinner.

“So how long have you been an author, James?” Norman asked.

“Twelve years . . . but I’ve only started writing under my own name in the last few years. Mostly freelance stuff.”

“Anything I might have read?” Norman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know . . . what do you like to read?” Bond said, not allowing the man to trap him.

There was condescending laugh at the table. The men turned to look at Michael Carlyle. The thirty-two year old man had red hair of the Carlyle’s with the pale skin and hazel eyes, like Q’s. But where Q’s eyes were like warm jade, Michael’s eyes were cold like agates. His fingers were thick and stunted. He was pudgy and soft looking, but it was the deceptive soft look of a rugby player. A thin layer of fat over hard muscles. A mulish strength inside a baby’s body.

“Norm likes to play the sophisticate. He thinks himself an intellectual . . . he likes to read romance novels one buys in the checkout line at Tesco. Nothing with words over five letters.”

Norman Carlyle glared at his cousin.

“Mike, if you’re not going to be able to control yourself, you shouldn’t drink so much.”

Bond and Q gave each other a quick glance. Q shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I was going through Grandfather’s notes today . . . Norman, you took over as directing manager of Carlyle International after your father’s death?”

Norman looked carefully at Q, then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to write about me and my family yet.”

“Norman, we won’t write and publish anything that you haven’t read and approved of first. I promise.”

The older Carlyle looked carefully at Q then at Bond. He seemed to be weighing his options. “Alright . . . yes, I took over formally after father died . . . heart attack . . . I had been his assistant for two prior to his death.”

“That was seven years ago?”

“Yes.” Norman answered simply.

Q turned to Michael, “but you never joined the family business.”

The man glared at Q. “Neither did you, did you! . . . No, I wasn’t good enough to join. I was Marcus and Dagmar’s child . . . I was . . .”

“Mike! That is enough!” Norman snapped. He turned to Q and James. “Please forgive us. Mike is still upset about your . . . resurrection. We all believed you were dead. It has come as a shock to us.”

“I certainly hope a good shock.” James said deeply.

“Oh, yes . . . of course.” Norman tried to cover his mistake. “We just don’t know what to expect now that you are back . . . I mean . . . are you planning on stepping into the company? Do you want a place on the board? Will you be moving back here?”

Q glanced over at James, then back to his cousin. “I am hoping to return to London and my own career, away and separated from Carlyle International. You don’t need to worry about me wanting to move here. I honestly did not ever want to return here . . . it just became required I do so, now. As soon as I have the information I need, James and I will be leaving.”

“Information?! . . . What information?!” Michael Carlyle asked.

“For the book, Mike. Nothing more. Just for the book.” Q reassured his cousin.

“And the money!?” Mike continued.

Q seemed to blush slightly. “I am very successful in my own life. I don’t want anything from the Carlyle’s.”

“What about the trust?”

Q seemed confused and looked at Norman. “Trust?”

“Grandfather established a trust three years ago. Each grandson was to receive an equal portion of the trust ever year. He listed you as a grandson. Each of us receive equal portions and now that you are . . . alive, again . . . you will receive your portion, reducing the size of ours.”

“Why didn’t he include your sisters?”

“You know Grandfather . . . old fashion . . . they would marry and live off their husbands. No reason he should worry about them and their future. I divide my share between them.” Norman smiled softly.

“How much money?” Q asked.

“Around 1.2 million divided four ways. Annually.” Norman said calmly.

Q glanced at James again. No wonder Michael wasn’t happy to see Q. If he demanded his share of the trust, each member would be receiving sixty thousand pounds less. Q briefly wondered what his brothers were doing with the money.

“Grandfather can keep his millions. I am not interested. We all know I’m not a real Carlyle. When I’m done here, I promise not to return.”

The two other men seemed to share a look, then Norman nodded. “Ford, you are our cousin regardless who your mother is. We would be disappointed if you didn’t feel welcomed here in our home. I could care less about the money and I’m sure Mycroft doesn’t need it. Please reconsider.”

“Norman, it is kind of you to say that, but I truly have created a new life for myself elsewhere . . . and I plan on returning to that.” Q said. The young man could feel Bond looking at him and smiling.

~Q~

Bond and Q walked down the gravel lined path just inside the edge of the woods. It stayed off the turf of the park and gently turned to and fro just a few feet inside the trees. It was dark already and the cold wind was coming up off the sea and blowing across the property. Q had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and he shivered next to Bond.

“I should have brought a jacket.”

“Sorry, I insisted on walking. Norman’s house was too close to drive and yet I didn’t think it would turn this cold tonight.” Bond said as he took off his windcheater. He held it out for Q.

The young looked at it then shook his head. James sighed exasperated and flipped the jacket over Q’s shoulders.

“You don’t . . .”

“Remember, I’m still your body guard and if I need to, I’ll protect you from yourself.”

“I thought you were supposed to be my jailor?”

“Don’t push me.” The sound of a laugh could be heard in Bond’s voice.

The two men walked a few more steps before Q slipped his arms through the sleeves of the coat and zipped it up.

“Thank you, 007.” Q instantly felt warmer. The jacket retaining the heat from Bond’s body in the cloth. Q caught the alluring scent of James’ cologne. “Are you going to call M and tell him where we are?”

“I’m sure your grandfather and brother have already taken care of that.”

“They both like to take charge.” Q laughed weakly.

“I don’t know anyone else in your family like that.”

Q glanced sideways but notice James was just looking forward and not at him.

“Norman is very busy with Carlyle International. He has been a good managing director. His father started grooming him for the position years ago.”

“What about Michael? No one said what he does for a living other than living off your grandfather’s trust.”

“He’s an artist. He paints landscapes and seascapes. He’s had several showings at galleries in Dover but he is not commercially successful.”

“Most artist aren’t until they are dead.” Bond said as he wrapped his arms around his chest. He was now feeling the cold and they still had several hundred feet to go till they reached the house.

“His mother was an artist, but Marcus wouldn’t let her paint in the house. He said he didn’t like the smell of the oil paints. She had a studio built out in the woods.”

“Marcus sounds like he was deserving of being bludgeoned to death.”

“I hated him.” Q said without reserve. “When I found out he was dead, I thought I should be sad or relieved or something. All I felt was anger I wasn’t here to see it . . . does that make me a bad person, Bond?”

“No, it makes you human.”

They walked on. The sound of the gravel under their feet sounded loud in the dark forest.

“How long have they been together?” Bond asked.

“Who? . . . Michael and Norman? I don’t know if they are . . . together?”

“I got the relationship vibe from them.”

Q glanced at James briefly. “Relationship? . . . You think they are lovers?”

“Norman called it their house. Norman tried to mollify Michael about the money. Yes, I believe the two of them are lovers.”

“But Norman had a wife. I mean they’re divorce now, but . . . I never thought he was bisexual.”

“You might be surprised . . .”

The two men walked on further in silence. Then Bond grabbed Q’s arm and pulled him down into the nearby brush.

“007!? . . .”

Before Q could make another sound, Bond covered the man’s mouth with his hand and pointed the window of the house they had been staying in. The light was on in the living room.

“I know that light was off when we left.” Bond whispered into Q’s ear. “Stay here.”

Bond stood and removed the Walther from the holster hidden at the small of his back. He started to move to the side of the house and around till his found the ivy covered lattice. It rested on the side of the house from the ground to the first floor. Bond placed the gun back into the holster, and climbed the lattice.

Silently, he opened the window and slipped into the upstairs bedroom. Bond moved silently through the house and down the stairs. He heard a man speaking. He had a deep voice and was commenting on the photos of the various family members. Bond listened carefully, but he only heard one voice. The man seemed to be speaking to himself. Bond remained in the shadows, waiting. He could see the man pacing around.

“Obviously, Sherrinford was compiling lists and histories on all of his family members. He also has detailed information here regarding a serial killer who was operating between seventeen to fourteen years ago. Three victims. Interesting.”

Bond could see the thin frame of the man pacing. For a brief moment, Bond thought it was Q. The man had the same wild dark curls and flash of pale skin. The same high cheek bones and slight frame. He was wearing a long black coat and purple scarf. Bond eased around the corner of the archway and aimed his gun up at the man.

“Who are you?” Bond asked calmly.

“Sherlock Holmes, but the more important question is who are you and what have you done with my brother.”

“I don’t think you get ask any question.” Bond said with a smirk. His gun still pointed at Sherlock.

“There you are wrong. Or so says the good doctor.”

Bond raised an eyebrow, then felt the muzzle of an automatic push against the back of his head.

“Now, ever so gently lower that gun and drop the magazine out of it.” The steady stern voice said behind the operative.

Bond thought for moment whether to fight, but decided against it. He raised his hands above his head and pushed the button to eject the magazine from the grip of his gun.

“Now, toss the gun over there on the sofa, please. Then we can sit down and discuss this like gentlemen.” The voice behind him said.

It was clear to see that the man was trained and not was going to make a mistake that Bond could take advantage of. He toss the gun to the side and slowly turned to see the stranger. To Bond’s surprise, the man was only five foot six. He had a stern expression and held the gun like a professional.

“And who are you?” Bond asked.

“Doctor John Watson”

“You’re good. What mistake did I make?”

“You didn’t make a mistake. I spent five years in army in Afghanistan. Hard to sneak up on a combat surgeon . . . Now, Sherlock asked where his brother is.”

“Waiting for me to call him in.” Bond said.

“Do it.” Sherlock said stepping around Bond to stand beside the doctor.

“No.”

The two men stared at Bond, then Sherlock tapped John on the shoulder and John lowered his gun.

“Sherrinford has nothing to fear from us.” Sherlock said. He went over and picked up Bond’s gun and handed it back to him.

Bond picked up the magazine and slipped it back into the gun.

“He told me, he specifically he didn’t want to speak to you.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment.

“I know what happened to my brother. We didn’t know he was alive. If we did . . . if I did, I would have done everything I could help him. I would have avenged him.” Sherlock stared sharply at Bond for a moment. “You would understand that. Revenge.”

Bond shifted back onto his heels. “I don’t believe in revenge.”

Sherlock smiled.

“We both know that isn’t true. Now, please, it is too cold outside for my younger brother to remain outside.”

The two men stared at each other. Both men remained indifferent. Then Watson sighed and stepped away. He opened the door and shouted out into the darkness.

“It’s safe to come in here. I’m John Watson . . . a friend of Sherlock’s . . . he wants to speak to you.”

John stood at the open door till he saw a figure emerge from the woods. John smiled at the man till he got closer, then the smile fell from John’s face.

“I didn’t know you and Sherlock looked so much alike.” He whispered as Q stepped up to him.

“Yes, almost like brothers.” Q said. His face was neutral but sarcasm was clear to hear in his voice.

Inside the house, James and Sherlock could hear John and Q. As soon as Sherlock heard his brother’s voice, his eyes flicked away from James’. The blonde thought the other man paled even more than before.

Sherlock hesitated briefly, then turned to look at his half-brother.

“Sherrinford . . .”

“I prefer to be called Q . . . if that is too difficult, Peter. Peter Wilson.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the name. Q cocked his head to the side and nodded.

“Of course . . . live the life Peter never did.” Sherlock said as he watched his brother step over and stand beside James.

“It only seemed fair.”

Sherlock quickly scanned over his long lost brother. He studied the man’s face and his hands. He took in his frame and how he was standing. His clothing and the dark framed glasses, Q wore. Then he took a good look into Q’s eyes. The soft hazel green and the deep sadness behind them.

“I didn’t think he would harm you . . . If I had known, I wouldn’t have let Mummy and Daddy leave you here.”

“What are you saying, Sherlock?” Q asked. Confused by his brother’s confession.

“I knew he was evil, but I thought he wouldn’t . . . I didn’t think he would . . .”

Bond’s eyes flashed with anger. He squeezed his hands into a fists.

“You knew! You knew what Marcus was going to do!”

“I had no advance knowledge of his actions. I was aware of his . . . predilections.”

“You knew he was a bloody rapist and you said nothing!? You sick bastard . . .”

Bond lunged forward again and punched Sherlock in the face. The tall detective did nothing to defend himself. He crumpled to the floor. Bond took a step forward but was tackled by Watson who knocked him to the floor. The two wrestle for a moment, when Sherlock pushed up onto his knees.

“John! Stop! Please . . . I deserved that.”

John shoved Bond backwards and glared at the man.

“You do not! You’ve already paid dearly!” John shouted. He stood up and stepped over to Sherlock. John cupped Sherlock’s bruising face. He helped the man to stand up while Bond jumped to his feet. “Sherlock, you don’t owe anyone an apology here! If anything, Sherrinford owes you!”

“He knew his younger brother was left with a pedophile!” Bond shouted.

“And because Sherrinford ran and away and made everyone think he was dead, Sherlock almost destroyed himself.”

Q twisted to look at Sherlock. He could see the fear and shame in Sherlock’s expression.

“What did you do?” Q asked.

“Nothing . . .” Sherlock said.

“He became addicted to drugs. He dropped out of school and got hooked so he didn’t have to face the fact his brother was dead.” John growled.

“I didn’t know you thought I was dead . . .” Q said softly.

“What else was everyone going to believe?” John kept hold of Sherlock as the taller man seemed to be weaving. Unsteady on his feet. “Let’s get out of here, Sherlock.” John tried to pull the man away.

“Sherlock, no . . . please stay. I’m sorry.” Q ducked his head.

James moved to wrap Q with his arms. His hand coming up to cup the young man’s face. Amazingly, Q didn’t pull away from him this time.

“Q, don’t . . . don’t apologize.”

“But I messed up . . . I ran away . . . I didn’t tell anyone . . .”

“You weren’t the only one who didn’t tell anyone, brother.” Sherlock said pulling his arm from John’s grasp. “I knew what Marcus could do because . . .” He looked away from the three men.

“Oh, my God . . .” John whispered.

Q and Bond realized at the same moment what Sherlock was saying. The younger man pulled out of James’ embrace and stepped closer to his brother.

“You too?”

“Almost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	9. Boundries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains his history with Marcus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned to writing. One of you was very kind to remind me how writing lets me work out my frustrations.

Boundaries

The four men sat around the table. It was late now, passed three in the morning. Spread out before them were the photos from Hanna’s trunk. Some were color photographs, others were black and white. There were several posed photos but many more candid shots of the young girl and members of the family and staff.

Sherlock picked up a color photo of the three of them, Sherlock, Q and Hanna. Q looked like he was around six years old. He was skinny and tiny next to his half-brother and cousin. Hanna was seven and Sherlock was ten. It was outside, in the woods. The grass was green and the wildflowers were blooming. All three of the children were smiling but Hanna’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. In the distant background was a small cottage with broad low eves over dark windows.

Sherlock tossed the photo back down on the table, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It was just after my sixteenth birthday . . .” Sherlock started to speak. “I was excited because I had just received my acceptance letter to Cambridge. Mummy was so proud of me. She was bragging to everyone. Telling everyone that her two sons were going to join her there.”

Q remembered the time. It was January and the snow covered the ground. It was too cold and he couldn’t go outside to get away from her. Violet Holmes wasn’t cruel, she just didn’t like him. He was the living reminder of her husband’s infidelity. She would only refer to Mycroft and Sherlock as her sons. Only Mycroft and Sherlock were ever going to amount to anything according to Violet. Ford was never included in her description of family. She let it be known that because of his mother, Ford would never amount to anything.

“Marcus brought me a bottle of alcohol. Something sweet. I didn’t like it. It clawed at the back of my throat. He insisted we drink it together. He kept telling me if I was going to be all grown up it was time I acted like it.” Sherlock continued. “I don’t know if it was drugged. I don’t think so. I thought he was drinking it too. Maybe I was mistaken . . . or maybe I just drank more than he did.”

Sherlock turned away and stared out the window for a moment. Studying the blackness outside the glass. Like he was watching some distant memory play out only for him.

“I came too in the cottage . . . Aunt Dagmar’s painting studio . . . He was pulling my trousers off. He was naked and . . . the smell of oil paint still makes me want to vomit.” Sherlock looked back at the table. “I came too enough to defend myself. I kicked him. Hard. He fell backwards and I dragged myself out of the cottage. I ran back up to the house. I was going to tell mother and father but . . . Marcus stopped me before I could. He played on my fear and naivety. Told me no one would believe a drunk teenage boy. Everyone knew that father and Marcus hated each other and they would believe I was just making the story up to hurt Marcus. That father put me up to it . . . I stupidly believed him.”

Bond, who was sitting next to Q, reached his arm around the young man’s shoulders before he asked his question. “If you knew what your uncle was capable of . . . why did you let your parents leave him here alone? Why didn’t you say something then?”

“Aunt Dagmar said she would make sure Sherrinford was safe.” Sherlock said.

“She knew what he was?” Bond asked.

“I told her. She didn’t believe me at first but . . . just before I was going to go to father she told me she would keep you safe. She would make sure Marcus didn’t harm you.”

“Well, she was wrong.” Bond growled.

Sherlock bowed his head. “I will forever regret I didn’t speak up. But . . . I didn’t consider you my brother. You were just . . .”

“Signer’s bastard child.” Q whispered.

“After you were reported dead, I realized I was wrong. I discovered my emotions for you were stronger than I imagined. I felt . . . hollow.”

“Why didn’t you come forward after I disappeared?” Q asked.

“The initial report was you were murdered. Your clothes were found partially burned in the furnace. There was blood on them. Your blood.”

“I don’t understand. I left those clothes on the floor of my room. I never wanted to touch them again.” Q glanced at James, pleading for the man to believe him.

James nodded slightly. He reached over and covered Q’s hand with his own. The younger man glanced down at the joined hands. It was the first time since Uni he had allowed another person to touch him so affectionately. The realization that he was finally letting someone touch him while they were discussing his attack made the contact that much more bitter sweet.

“It must have been Marcus and Dagmar. They knew you left and they wanted people to believe you were dead. Violet and Signer blamed themselves and wouldn’t look deeper into the evidence.” Sherlock explained.

“But you did.” John finally spoke.

Sherlock turned at looked at the doctor. John’s deep blue eyes were soft and warm. They gazed openly at Sherlock and the older Holmes felt John had finally forgiven him. That John would be there for him. That he didn’t need to worry John would be so disgusted with him for not speaking up to leave Sherlock forever.

“I refused to believe you were dead. I thought you had run away. I left Cambridge and came here immediately. I got hold of an original forensic report on the clothing. It stated that beside the blood that was consistent with being Sherrinford’s, there was semen, not belonging to you. That’s when I knew what had happened. That’s when I knew I had let you down. I believed Marcus had killed you.”

The other men could feel the emotion slipping into Sherlock’s words. John wanted to reach over and wrap his arms around his friend but he was afraid Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. He squeezed his hands tight to keep them by his side. Forcing himself to remain still in the chair instead of reaching for Sherlock.

“What did you do?” whispered Q.

“I confronted Marcus. He claimed he was in London at a board meeting for Carlyle. He said he was seen by dozens of people. He returned the day you were found missing. I didn’t believe him but had no proof. Maybe they wanted people to think you ran away, maybe they wanted people to think you faked your death. That way if you were found and you talked, no one would believe you. We would both be accused of making the whole thing up for our father’s benefit within the company.”

Sherlock stared at his younger brother. The two men shared a silent moment of shared pain. Knowing they were manipulated by those who were supposed to protect them.

“Who was responsible for changing the reports?” asked John.

“I don’t know. Someone with enough power to shift the direction of the investigation.” Sherlock waved his hand. “Someone like Grandfather.”

“But why?” Bond asked. “If the truth came out about the rape, then Marcus wouldn’t have been able to claim it was lie. You and Q would have been believed.”

Sherlock glanced at Q and the two men sighed.

“All Marcus would have had to say was that I seduced him. I manipulated him and took advantage of him.”

“Took advantaged of him? At fourteen?!” growled Bond.

“There was a history between our father and Marcus.” Q said.

“What history?” Bond asked. His hand still resting on top of Q’s.

Q glanced down at their hands. He didn’t want to lose contact with the man, but he knew it would hurt less if he was the one to pull away instead of James. He slipped his hand back and out from underneath James’.

“Signer seduced Dagmar. They used to meet in her studio. Michael caught them there and told Marcus. Marcus threatened to kill Signer. Violet found out and left. She returned later for a reconciliation.”

“When did that happen?” John asked.

“Sherrinford’s mother had died in the spring. It was the following Christmas. Sherrinford had just started living with us and my parents were fighting often.” Sherlock said as he looked down at the photo of the three of them again in the woods in front of the studio cabin. “I believed he just wanted some comfort, but Marcus claimed he did it on purpose to destroy Marcus’ credibility on the board. The two started fighting bitterly over Carlyle International. They fought back and forth for seven years. Uncle Garrison used it take over control of the company when Grandfather began to let go of power. Both Marcus and our father were shut out. By the time I left for Cambridge, father had moved on and formed his own export business in France and Marcus was only a figure head within Carlyle. Garrison held the real power.”

“Is that why Grandfather started the trust fund?” Q asked.

“The money to male grandchildren? Yes. He realized to late what had happened but he couldn’t stop Garrison. He established the trust for Michael, Mycroft, and myself. Because he believed you were still alive he worded it so you could receive your share if you ever reappeared, but by doing so he had to include giving money to Norman. But he made sure Norman had to split his share with his sisters.”

“Norman told us he did that of his own volition.” Said Q.

“He lied. Norman really doesn’t need the money. He took over as general executive of Carlyle from Garrison. He has been very successful. He is rich in his own right. He has taken Carlyle into new and profitable ventures but Grandfather still doesn’t trust him. Visiting the sins of the father on the son.”

“That’s not very fair.” John said.

“Being fair has never been a Carlyle-Holmes trait.” Sherlock looked over at his friend.

James pulled back away from Q and looked closely at the men’s faces.

“None of this information helps us with determining who killed Marcus and Hanna.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair. “Is that truly why you are here? To discover a killer?”

“Sherlock, she was burned at the stake-like a witch.” Q said.

“A witch?! How do you know?” Sherlock leaned forward.

“The police report. The information was kept from us. But she was murdered . . . she was burned alive.”

“Oh, God . . .” John gasped. “Why?”

“We believe she may have been tracking a serial killer.” James said.

Sherlock’s expression changed. It sharpened and tightened. His eyes focused on his brother and the other blonde.

“A serial killer? What evidence do you have?”

“She had a journal. In it she mentions Uncle Marcus and what he was doing. She also had a book of his on medieval torture. Under the chapter on Trial by Water, she wrote Peter’s name. I read through the police report on him. He was drowned but was naked and had bruises consistent with strangulation. Under the chapter on Trial by Fire, she listed another man’s name. He was found dead in York with burn marks on him. Naked, raped, strangled. Then there was a third man in Ireland.” Q listed the three deaths lifting a finger for each.

“Also a method for testing for a witch?”

“Yes, crushing with stones.” Bond said flatly. “Four deaths all associated with witches. All forms of torture.”

“You mentioned Marcus Carlyle . . . do you think he was murdered by this serial killer?” John asked.

“Grandfather believes whomever killed Hanna also killed Marcus. I know he drowned like Peter, but he was dressed and didn’t have any bruises around his neck.”

“A botched attempt?” John looked at Sherlock.

The dark haired man was focused on one of the pictures on the table. The corners of his mouth turned down and his fingers tapping lightly on the wood.

“The killer would have tortured them prior to killing them. The thrill of inflicting pain and fear before the final act of taking their lives. Except for Hanna. The pain and fear would be taking her life.”

His hand reached out and pulled a single black and white photo from the pile. He twisted it around so he could look more clearly at it.

“I never saw this photo.” Sherlock said causally.

“It was taken the day she went missing. It is over in Dover, during the parades. The newspapers used it for their articles.” Q said. “What do you remember of her death?”

“Nothing . . . by that time I was . . . incapacitated.” Sherlock flipped the photo over and looked at the name on the back. “A professional photographer from Dover area. I would try there.” Sherlock twisted the photo up so the other men could see it. “She obviously saw someone or something there that frightened her. Look at her face.”

The young blonde girl was startled looking. She glancing in a different direction from the other people in the photo. Her eyes were wide and astonished looking. Her mouth was partially open as if the photo was taken just a moment before a scream.

“That was fifteen years ago, do you think the man is still in business?” James asked.

“The newspaper is . . . maybe they have other photos from that day. Maybe they know the whereabouts of the photographer.” Sherlock explained.

“Are we going to Dover?” John asked.

“No, you, Sherrinford and I are going to York and track down any information about the death of the young man up there. Bond can go to Dover.”

“Q will stay with me. I’m am commissioned with his protection.” James said darkly. He didn’t like the idea of being separated from Q.

“John is a trained soldier and doctor. You couldn’t ask for a better bodyguard than him.” Sherlock said condescendingly.

“No.”

Q looked back and forth between his brother and James. “I’ll go with James. You will know what questions to ask the police and I will be better with the photographer.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked quickly hoping to catch his brother out.

“Q is renowned for the cameras he designs. He is an expert in all things mechanical.” James said smugly.

Sherlock glared at the man.

“Sherrinford, I do believe your safety would compromised with this . . . individual. He is obviously an assassin and of questionable morals.” Sherlock’s expression hardened as he dared Bond to deny the deduction.

“Sherlock!” John hissed as he prepared to defend Sherlock from another attack.

Q took in a quick breath, expecting a sudden response from the agent. James sat perfectly still, smiling beside Q.

“Q is more than aware of my faults and accomplishments. We have worked together for three years now. I doubt there is anything you can deduce about me that he doesn’t already know.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t there?”

“Sherlock, stop it!” Q shouted. “Enough. I know that Bond has been ordered to be my bodyguard. I know he will do everything include sacrifice himself to keep me safe. That is far more than any of you ever did. I trust Bond with my life.”

Sherlock sat still staring directly at Bond. Threating the man with telling Q what he knew about Bond’s feelings. The room was silent and heavy.

“Okay, enough with the scare secret agent crap.” John sighed. “Tomorrow, Sherlock and I will go to York. The two of you will go to Dover.”

“John?” Sherlock started.

“No, Sherlock. I’m tired. I’ve been dealing with you and your resurrected brother and his trained killer for too long. I want to go to bed.”

“Sherlock’s old bedroom has the bed made in it. You can use that room.” Q said.

“Bed? Just one?” John asked as he stood.

“Oh, I thought . . .”

“No we are not together. But it’s okay, we can share a bed.” John sighed. A sudden tingle slipped up Sherlock’s spine.

“Well, Mycroft’s old room is also ready . . .” Q started to say.

“John said it was alright. I won’t let John sleep in Mycroft’s room. God knows what irritant he might acquire there.” Sherlock stood and tried to look indifferent. “Very good, Sherrinford. We will be seeing you in the morning.”

Sherlock stared at Bond until John grabbed the man’s elbow and pulled Sherlock out of the room. Q turned and looked at James.

“I’m sorry about him, James. He’s always been a bit arrogant.”

“Watson seems to know how to handle him.” James smiled. “Now, it’s time I get you to bed too.”

“Sorry?” Q leaned away from the blonde.

Bond just shook his head and pulled Q’s to his feet as he stood. “Like Watson said, enough Holmes and their deductions for tonight.”

“You like John, don’t you?” Q asked as he was being herded upstairs.

“I like him as much as I can like someone who held a gun at my head and tackled me before I punched his boyfriend.”

Q didn’t correct the boyfriend statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, like so many other people are still in shock and anger but I am hope that with knowledge and tolerance we learn to accept each other and our uniqueness. Thank you for your support and reassurances that I wasn't alone.


	10. The Comfort of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has another nightmare and finds comfort.

****

The Comfort of Darkness

_The dream began again. Q was running through the trees, the monster was there chasing him. He couldn’t see the monster but he knew . . . he knew he would die if the monster caught him. The trees were holding him back again. They were blocking his way. Their limbs reaching out to stop him. Then he saw her. Hanna. She was dressed in a white and yellow dress that seemed to shine. Like a light coming from within her. She was bending down to pick wildflowers. Daisies. She didn’t know she was in danger._

_Q needed to warn her. He needed to tell her the monster was near. But if he shouted to her, the monster would hear him and know where he was. If he tried to change directions and run to her, the monster would catch him._

_Q flailed in the dream. Trying to save Hanna and himself. The trees reached out for him. They scratched his arms and face. They closed in tighter blocking his route. The monster was going to reach him. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t save Hanna. They were both going to die._

Q woke up as he felt arms reach around his body.

“LET GO OF ME!” he shouted.

“Q, IT’S ME!” James tied to control the young man before he hurt himself.

“DON’T HURT ME!”

“Never.”

Q was breathing hard. His heart was racing and trying leap from his chest. He was shivering as his skin cooled from the sweat covering him.

“James?!”

“Yes, Q. It’s me. You’re safe.”

The two men heard running feet and Sherlock and John appeared at the open door. John’s gun in his hand. James and Q were wrapped in each other’s arms, bare-chested on the bed, staring at the two men in the doorway.

“Sherrinford? Are you . . . alright?” Sherlock asked as his eyes quickly assessed the situation. “Nightmare?”

“I’m sorry. I get them sometimes.” Q said ducking his head. He tried to push away from James, but the man wouldn’t let go of him.

“It’s completely all right.” John said. He lower the gun and wiped his hand across his eyes. “We understand, Ford. Don’t apologize . . . com’on, Sherlock. Let’s get some sleep.” He tapped his friend on his shoulder, but Sherlock did not move.

“See, I told you.” James said softly as he tried to pull Q close again.

Sherlock watched as Q gave a feeble push back.

“Sherrinford, do wish for me to stay with you?” Sherlock asked.

The younger man glanced up at his brother, then shook his head. “No, Sherlock. I’ll be fine in the morning. Nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock waited a moment. Glancing back and forth between the two men.

“If you need me, just call out. John keeps his gun with him always.”

Q smiled weakly as his brother left. Bond waited till the two were alone to laugh lightly.

“Apparently, he know how dangerous I am.”

“He thinks you are going to hurt me.” Q said ducking away from James and pulling back.

“I would never do that intentionally, Q. You do know that, don’t you?” James said as he watched the young man get out bed and start to pace.

“Yes, Bond. I know you will protect me. Sherlock just made an assumption and he won’t understand he is wrong.”

Q kept pacing the room while James sat silently on the bed watching him. The young man made a circuit around the room twice before he turned back to the blonde.

“You don’t have to wait up with me. I’ll be fine. Go on back to bed.”

“I think it would be better if I stayed here with you.” James said. He patted the bed. “Come back to bed and we will lay down together.”

Q froze in the dark room. He could barely see the spy in the room with him but he didn’t want to believe it was an attempt at seduction. Bond was so much smoother than that. There would innuendoes and sly touches. There would foreplay not _‘get over here and jump into bed with me’._

“Ah . . . Bond, I don’t think . . . we work together . . . I know that’s not a reason . . .” Q stumbled over the words trying to decide what the appropriate way to turn the man down was.

“Q, I’m not trying to seduce you.” Bond stood up and walked over to Q. He set his hands on Q’s shoulders and gently squeezed. “In the last seventy-two hours, I doubt you’ve slept for nine. You’ve had vivid nightmares every time you’ve laid down. Last time, instead of going back to sleep like you should have done, you sat up and worked on the files. You’re going to crash . . . and badly, if you don’t get some rest. If the nightmares come when you sleep alone, then let’s try you sleeping with someone beside you. I would recommend your brother, but I don’t believe either one of you would be amenable to that suggestion. And I think your brother would shoot anyone who tried to sleep with the good doctor. So your choices are me or I punch you in the jaw and knock you out for several hours.”

“But . . .”

“Q, quit being idiot . . . you’re exhausted . . . I’m exhausted. And this way, if you start to have another nightmare, I’m already here. Maybe, I can stop it before it gets too bad.”

Q glanced at the bed then back at Bond. He wished he had his glasses on and that there was light to see by. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He wasn’t sure of James’ expression.

He could feel the warmth from James’ hands on his shoulders. And he was exhausted. His body was telling him he needed sleep. The adrenaline had faded and he felt muddled. His head wasn’t clear. Q decided he could use that excuse in the morning if he felt any guilt or fear about James then.

“Okay. I prefer the left side.”

“Good.”

James gently pushed Q back towards the bed. He helped Q lower himself to the bed and slip under the covers. James slipped in behind him. It was a full size bed and they were close together on the mattress, but Bond didn’t crowd Q. He didn’t move closer or make any attempt to touch the young man. James rolled up onto his left side and laid there watching Q for a moment.

“Sleep works better if you close your eyes.” James whispered.

Q rolled onto his left side too. His pale long back towards James. The two men laid there for several moments before Q finally spoke.

“Thank you, Bond.”

“James.”

“What?”

“We’re sharing a bed. The least you can do is call me James.”

“Oh . . . of course. Thank you, James.”

Q didn’t hear anything more except the soft steady breathing of the man laying behind him. In a few minutes, Q was also sound asleep. So deep asleep he never felt the arm slip over his waist and pull him closer to the blonde.

~Q~

Q woke to the smell of Earl Grey tea. He felt warm and safe. It was a welcoming feeling. Q sighed and stretched.

“Good, you’re awake.”

Q rolled over to see James standing in the door way. The sunlight was reflected back up onto the man’s face. He seemed to glow with health and strength. He was smiling at Q. In his hands he was holding a tray.

Q sat up and the covers pooling around his waist. His pale skin was ivory in the filtered light. His dark curls even wilder than normal.

“I brought you some tea and toast. Are you hungry?” James lifted the tray.

He watched as Q lifted both of his hands like a wanting toddler. He smiled and laughed softly.

“Give . . .” Q pleaded.

James stepped over and set the tray down on the bed. He kneeled down as he watched Q grab the mug of tea and greedily drink. James listened to the contented hum come from the skinny computer geek.

Bond wanted to reach out a comb his fingers through Q’s dark curls. It was an instinct, a reflex. He knew it was inappropriate. His fingers twitched with want. He turned away and moved to stand up.

“Is Sherlock awake yet?” Q asked.

“Your brother and Doctor Watson have left.”

Q looked confused, then disappointed. He realized they weren’t close siblings but he had hoped that now they could be at least friends.

“They left? I wish they could have at least waited for me to wake up.”

“They did, but once it was noon, they had to go.”

“Noon? . . . What time is it?” Q asked looking out to the window.

“It’s one thirty. You’ve been asleep for nine and half hours.”

“What!?”

Bond laughed. He came back over and slipped back down on the bed. His smile reached up to his eyes and he couldn’t help himself. He reached up pushed a wayward curl behind Q’s ear.

“You needed to sleep. You’re body finally gave it. Nine hours. Now if you hurry and get dress . . . I take you to my favorite fish and chip shop.”

“Fish and chips? I didn’t think you would like something so . . . average.” Q raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll have you know, this chippie is anything but average. It’s a stall down by the docks. A hole in the wall. You’ll love it.” James smile brightened as Q smiled back.

~Q~

To say the chip shop was small was an understatement. It was barely ten feet wide and two thirds of its depth was taken up by the fryers and the kitchen. There were two small tables on either side of the door, not big enough for more than a person or two, but several burly men dressed as dock workers were crowded around them. The shop smelled of oil and malt vinegar. There was an unpleasant scent of sweat and beer that made Q’s noise twitch.

“Don’t worry, we don’t eat here. Just get our meals and leave. I have the perfect spot already scoped out.” Bond whispered in Q’s ear as the two of them stood in line for the counter.

Bond stepped forward and lifted two fingers. He didn’t even speak. The busy clerk behind the counter seemed relieved they didn’t have to exchange conversation with a new customer. Two packages of rolled newsprint were set on the counter with two beers. Bond handed the haggard clerk some banknotes and took the food.

He walked around the corner and down a narrow alley between old brick buildings. The route opened up onto a small patch of green grass behind a brick retaining wall. Bond sat on the edge of the wall, his feet dangling over the edge. Q sat cautiously beside him and then looked out. The view from the wall was out over the harbor and the ships coming and going from the busy port. There were commercial ships as well as several private vessels. There were fishing boats and ferries. The white and grey boats dotted the deep blue sea. It was beautiful.

“I found this place years ago, when I was an ensign. Alec and I would sit here and watch the ships come and go.” Bond sat and look out over the port.

“It’s beautiful.” Q said surprised by the view. “I didn’t realize there were so many different boats sailing out of here.”

Bond handed Q one of the bundles of fish and chips. Q absently opened the package and started to eat. His attention on the view was immediately shifted to the food. The fish was battered just right. It was crisp and seasoned perfectly. The fish was flaky and moist. The chips were also crisp on the outside and creamy on the inside. Everything was remarkable considering the dingy shop they had bought them at.

Bond glance sideways at the young man then smiled at Q’s expression.

“I told you it was good.”

“This isn’t good, this is wonderful. How are they not more popular?”

“They are very popular with the local dock workers. Everyone who loves the shop, keeps it a secret. No reason letting the tourists find out about it.” James started eating his food.

The two sat, eating in silence and watching the ships come and go. When James finished his lunch, he wadded the paper up and started to tell Q the name of each ship that was in the harbor. He started to talk about his life before MI6. His time in the navy with Alec. His love of the sea.

Q sat and listened. Occasionally asking questions to certain comments. Q watched as Bond relaxed and began to laugh more about Alec and his adventures. For a brief moment, Q forgot about his family. He forgot about the trouble he was in and the murders. He forgot about the estate and the serial killer. He relaxed too.

James turned and looked at him. The man’s amazing blue eyes shined brightly at Q. The young man thought for a moment how would they look when Bond was excited? How would they look when Bond was aroused? Would they ever look at Q that way when they were alone in bed? Then the wave of fear swept over Q again. Fear of being touched intimately. Of being physical with another person.

Bond could see the shift in Q’s thoughts and the shadow that passed behind the man’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think we should be going. We need to talk to the photographer.”

“Q . . . we can wait just a few minutes. Tell me what you were thinking. What made you sad?”

Q turned away from the blonde and looked back over the water. He watched as a small sailboat bounced in the waves. He felt like that. Being battered to and fro with little chance of making it very far.

“Q?”

“Let’s go.” He slipped down from the wall and started to walk back to the busy docks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonder support and encouragement. You are the best. It really makes it so much more enjoyable to share this journey with you.


	11. More than You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things become even more complicated for Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not getting this out sooner but it is a rather long chapter. Please be aware that there is graphic description of torture in this chapter. Crime scene photos are discussed between Sherlock and a detective. Know your triggers and respect them, please.

More than You Think

 

For security reasons, Mycroft Holmes’ office was in the Level 2 subbasement of Whitehall. Less chance of snipers or shoulder launched missiles when there were no windows to shoot at. The grey room had little in the way of ambiance but it suited Mycroft’s needs. He was here to work not to be comfortable.

The knock on the door pulled Mycroft’s attention away from a report on developing problems in the US elections. He sighed regretting not having more ability to manipulate the ridiculously naïve county.

“Yes . . .”

The door opened and Anthea entered. She never looked up at her boss. Her eyes fixed on her Blackberry.

“Sir, Mister Mallory from MI6 is here to see you.” She was tapping rapidly at the small device.

“Does he have an appointment?” Mycroft glanced up from the manila file.

“No, sir. But he is insistent.”

“Oh well . . . if he must.” Mycroft waved his hand away as he twisted his chair back around to face his desk. He closed the file as Anthea led the executive of MI6 in to the grey office. “Gareth, what can I do for you today.”

Mallory waited until Anthea had left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Sherrinford Holmes.” Mallory said as he sat down. Mycroft didn’t respond to the name. “Your brother . . . supposedly dead for fifteen years. Strangely enough he shares a remarkable resembles to our Quartermaster.”

“The individual, whom I informed you was not Peter Wilson.”

“Peter Wilson is also the name of a dead boy found on your family’s estate fifteen years ago. But the death certificate has been . . . misplaced?”

“Are you now involving MI6 in the demographics for Sussex? I believe that is not written into the mandate for 6’s operational scope.”

“Sherrinford Holmes, your brother and my Quartermaster. Did you place him in my organization?” Mallory glared at the older Holmes.

“If I had place my half-brother in your precious ‘6’, would I have informed you he was a threat? Why haven’t you detained him? Who is this . . . Bond, fellow who allowed Sherrinford to escape?”

“The Quartermaster has not escape. He is under protective custody by one of my top operatives. His whereabouts are presently being kept secret while we investigate the allegations.” Mallory lied. He had no idea where Q was.

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a thin line. His eyes scanned over the man sitting in front of him. “Sherrinford in Sussex at my grandfather’s home. Archibald Carlyle has commissioned him to write a family memoir.” Mycroft smiled insincerely. Mallory kept his expression neutral. He knew he couldn’t let anything slip before Holmes.

“It appears to me that if you know so much about who and where our Quartermaster is it is because you have a specific interest in him. Your request to have him detained leads me believe he does not share in any desire for a family reunion. Excuse me for my previous outburst. It is obvious that Q doesn’t work for you. Let me guess . . . you didn’t even know he was still alive until you saw him in Scotland.”

“Remember, Gareth . . . I placed you in the chair of M after Mansfield was killed in Scotland. I can remove you from that chair too.”

There is was. The threat Mallory had been waiting for.

“Well, then until you do . . . it is my job to protect my people. And I will keep do so . . . even from their manipulative family members. Q is mine. He wants nothing to do with his family if he has kept his existence secret.” Mallory stood. “Who could blame him? So you can either fire me now or let me do my job. Either way, Q will never come back to you. Not after fifteen years.”

Mallory stepped away and left the grey office. Mycroft couldn’t respond to the man; a strange and unfamiliar sensation bloomed in his chest. Remorse. Mallory was correct. Unless Mycroft got ahead of his brother and grandfather, he would never be able to bring his brother home to his parents . . . and to himself.

~Q~

Sherlock and John sat in the hard plastic chairs of North Yorkshire Police Station. The short squat three story building was built out of red bricks and glass. The sounds of sirens occasionally moved in concert with general hum of police conversations. John and Sherlock had been waiting three hours to see the detective who had been the last man assigned to the now cold case of Joshua William Blake. 

“We should have brought Sherrinford with us.” Sherlock said without looking at his friend.

“Bond needs him in Dover.”

“We can’t trust Bond.”

John looked carefully at his friend. Sherlock sat with his long legs crossed. With his inky curls and the black coat, Sherlock would remind the casual observer of a raven or some harbinger of evil. A messenger of doom.

“Why can’t we trust Bond?” John asked wonder what insight into Bond’s character Sherlock had deduced during their brief conversation with the man while Q slept upstairs.

“He’s a spy.” Sherlock said, still not looking at John.

“So is your brother if I’m to understand correctly. He’s been working for MI6 for several years now.”

“He is their Quartermaster. Not hardly a covert operative with a gun and lethal disposition.”

“Yes, a lethal disposition is far more suspect than a high functioning sociopath.” There was a soft laugh in the words.

Sherlock finally turned and looked at his friend. He could see the gleam in John’s eyes. He had missed the doctor’s mischievous wit for some days now. Sherlock was glad it was returning.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be near your brother . . . to feel an emotional connection.” John said.

“I assure you, John, my concern is with Bond and not with Sherrinford.”

“It’s obvious, you feel guilty . . . which is an emotion by the way . . . you feel guilty about not speaking up . . . but you don’t need to punish yourself for it.” John ignored Sherlock’s denial.

Sherlock turned away and started watching the people working around them.

“Any debt I owed Sherrinford, I paid already. A life for a life.”

The expression hit John in the gut. He hardened his face. His lips thinned and he twisted in the chair to face Sherlock.

“Destroying your life was not payment. You sacrificing your future . . . your education . . . your health . . . by turning to the syringe did not bring Ford back to you. Your brother’s pain is not reduced by your stupidity. If anything, you compounded the pain and suffering your family had to deal with Ford’s disappearance fifteen years ago.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s wrist in his grip. “So he is back. You have apologized, and now you can move on. We don’t have to be here for Ford. He is a man now and he can make his own choices.”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s hand grasping his wrist. John’s skin was warm and he could feel it through his cotton shirt. The warmth shot electric current up Sherlock’s arm and throughout his body.

“John, the events of the past limited Sherrinford’s choices. If I could have prevented it from happening, I would have. But I am intelligent enough to know that trying to correct the mistakes of the past are fruitless.”

“Good . . . then why are we here again.”

“There was a killer . . . he killed three young men. He may have killed my cousin. I’m not doing this for Sherrinford, I’m not here because my grandfather wants answers. I am here for myself. There is killer out there whom I didn’t see until it was too late for her.”

“So you agree with Ford, the same man could be responsible for murdering her and her father is the serial killer?”

“At this time there is not enough information to draw any conclusions. I must have facts before I will make a deduction. But if you must ask . . . no, whomever killed Hanna, did not kill Marcus. Marcus was a drunk and he fell in the lake and drowned. Accidental. There is no other evidence to the contrary.”

John sat still just staring at Sherlock. He didn’t see the other man approach until the detective introduced himself.

“Chief Inspector Talbot.” He held his hand out.

Sherlock stood and took it with a quick clean shake. He gave the officer a quick once over with his razor sharp appraisal. John had seen the look before and he shook his head wondering what unfortunate bit of personal information Sherlock was going to announce in public. He wondered how difficult it would be for Lestrade to get them out of jail in York.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said, nothing more.

“Ah . . . John Watson.” John stumbled to say his name, surprised by Sherlock’s control. Sherlock smiled as he sensed the doctor beside him relaxed.

“Yes . . . I’ve heard of you. I’m glad you are here. I was surprised to find out you were interested in a fifteen year old cold case.”

“Joshua Blake, I need to see your complete files. There may be a link to other homicides across England and Ireland.”

Talbot stood still giving Sherlock and John an accessing look. Talbot was older than John was expecting to see. He was taller than John but shorter than Sherlock. His hair was a messy swirl of white hair. His face was pudgy and florid. John thought he probably had been a drinker once but gave it up. No one could be a hard core alcoholic and remain in a position of authority like detective inspector for as long as Talbot appeared to have been working. The man’s body was aged and his shoulders slumped down. His paunch was round but not overly fat. His clothes were clean but worn. His tie was still knotted but pulled away from his collar.

“Mister Holmes, I need something more than the opinion of a concerned citizen to believe we had a serial killer operating in York fifteen years ago. Tell me what evidence you have.” Talbot kept his body language neutral but he was going to be a brick wall to Sherlock if he wasn’t satisfied with the man’s explanations.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “The peculiarity of the reported injuries to Blake are consistent with a form of torture used during the Inquisition and the Witch Trials. I have two other cases from that time period with similar torture element at Blake.”

Talbot stood staring at the man for moment. Then crossed his arms over his chest.

“Two other cases? Similar victims? . . . Similar torture?”

“Similar victims . . . different methods of torture.”

“Where?” Talbot asked now leaning forward.

“Sussex and Eastern Ireland.”

Talbot dropped his arms. He seemed shocked for a moment. His pale brown eyes blinked.

“Follow me, please.” He turned on his heels and walked down the tiled corridor.

After several turns and climbing one flight of stairs, John and Sherlock were ushered into a small office. A large grey metal desk took up most of the space in the cramped office. There were two industrial grade chairs facing the desk. One had numerous manila file folders stacked upon it. Talbot grabbed the files as he passed by and waved for the men to sit.

Sherlock gave the room a cursory look. John spent more time cataloging everything he could see. Talbot’s desk was piled with files and various books. The titles John could read were law books. There were two dirty mugs on the desk smelling of cold coffee. A partially eaten sandwich was sitting precariously on the edge of the desk, near one of the mugs of coffee.

There were two filing cabinets against one wall and on the opposite wall was a large map of England with three pins in it. John could see one pin was stuck in York. There were two more. One to the west of York and one to the South.

Talbot was still holding the stack of files when he sat down. He glanced around his cluttered desk before setting the pile on the floor.

“Okay, Mister Holmes. You have my attention. Tell me what you know.”

Sherlock leaned back in the metal chair. The joints groaned as Sherlock crossed his long legs then crossed his wrists over his knees.

“I know you are wasting my time. I need to see the file on Blake and on the other two people you believe were murdered by our serial killer.”

“What makes you think we are investigating two other cases of than Blake?”

Sherlock pointed a long finger at the map. “All three pins have red flags. If they were marking different location for different reasons, you would have used different colored flags for each. I recognize one of the locations as being the reported location of Blake’s’ body. You are actively investigating a cold case therefore it would be much of a stretch to believe you would investigating several murders that are linked together.”

“You are as good as Lestrade said you were.” Talbot said without a smile or an explanation. He handed Sherlock one of the files from his desk.

Sherlock read quickly through the report. He read through the forensic autopsy report then handed it to John. Talbot didn’t wait for them to stop reading before he started speaking.

“Joshua William Black age seventeen. He was going to enlist after his eighteenth birthday which was going to be five weeks later. He was last seen leaving a pub where he and his friend got into a pushing match with some other teenagers. No history of trouble with the law. No full time girlfriend. No problems at home. He was found two days later on the wet lands to Clifton Park. Naked, raped and dead.”

“What is missing from the report?” Sherlock asked as he set the file down.

“Nothing.” Talbot said a little too quickly.

“The autopsy report mentions numerous burns on the young man’s body. Especially to his feet and lower legs. Distinct areas with sharp margins. Not a fire per say, more like . . .”

“A branding.” John finished Sherlock’s sentence.

Talbot closed his eyes and paled slightly. “There are photographs . . .”

“Let me see them.” Sherlock said.

Talbot opened his eyes and looked straight at Sherlock. “When did you eat last?”

Sherlock knitted his brow and stared at the man. His lips twitched and he wondered why the man would ask that.

“My dinning habits are irrelevant.”

“The photos are . . . difficult . . . I don’t want you getting sick in my office.” Talbot opened a drawer and took out another folder. He handed it to Sherlock.

John shifted closer and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder as the man opened the file. The first photo was crime scene photo. Blake’s body was twisted, his back and shoulders were on the ground, this head turned as he was looking to the left. Both hands and arms were stretched out over his head and his torso was clear to see. His legs were together, and the knees bent, laying to the right.

Blistered patches of burned skin were evident across the young man’s pale skin. A triangle pattern roughly four inches wide. The skin was black and chard. The edges were an angry red. There were a few across his chest and abdomen, but many more down his thighs and lower extremities. His feet were swollen and black. Weeping blisters burst and oozed.

“Oh God . . .” John whispered. His hand reached out for Sherlock’s shoulder. The dark haired man unconsciously leaned back into his friend’s touch.

“The forensic pathologist said it appeared Blake was forced to walk across some kind of heated sheet of metal. The injuries to the underlying tissues and bones indicate he had to do it repeatedly. When he couldn’t walk anymore, they used the iron on the boy’s body.”

“The rape?” Sherlock asked. His mouth went dry and made it difficult to speak.

“Done during the torture. He was strangled when they were done.”

“They? More than one?”

“I believe so . . . the DNA was inconclusive. But it had to be two. One man couldn’t force a health seventeen year old to do this . . .” Talbot pointed to the photograph.

Sherlock looked at the other photos present in the file. He pulled a photo out of an older man with blonde hair. He was naked, laying on a flattened cardboard box. His body was littered with cuts. Some were deep while others appeared quite shallow. Blood smeared across his white skin. His limbs were laying haphazardly across his naked body.

Sherlock held the photo up for Talbot to see.

“Matthew Horn. Twenty-three. Two years before Blake. Found in a carpark south of here. Raped and strangled.”

“DNA?”

“Single perpetrator.”

Sherlock found another photo of another young man. Dark haired and olive skinned. He looked carefully at the photo. There didn’t appear to be any major injuries to the body other than the ring of bruises around the young man’s throat. He held the photo up to Talbot.

“Christopher Liddle.” Talbot looked away from the photo and towards the map on the wall. “Sixteen, raped, strangled, found in Overton. In a freshly plowed field.”

“Torture?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes . . . He had been sodomized repeatedly with an iron rod. The last time it had been heated. His insides had be seared.”

John’s hand squeezed tight onto Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock set the file down and quickly closed it. He wiped his hand unconsciously down his trouser leg.

“The killer had to have a place . . . isolated to kill these men . . . dumping their bodies later.”

“Yes, but we couldn’t find any trace of where that might be. Now you tell me there are other crimes in other parts of the country.”

“In Sussex. A boy was drowned. And in Wexford, Ireland . . . Paul Cartwright. He was found in a quarry. He was staked out and a wooden plank was laid across his chest. Rocks were piled on top until his was crushed.”

“Were either of them raped?” Talbot asked.

“Cartwright was found naked . . . there were indications of . . . sexual abuse. Peter Wilson in Sussex was found naked in the lake, but most of the evidence had been washed off his body. There was no overt bruising.”

“What makes you think his death is connected?”

“His name was included in a list compiled by another victim . . . but she doesn’t fit the victim profile.”

“She? . . . Female?”

“Fifteen year old girl. Burned to death at the stake.”

Talbot clasped his hands together in front of his face. He bent his face down and rested his forehead on them. He was silent for several moments before he looked back up at Sherlock. The exhaustion showed in his brown eyes.

“Six possible victims in both England and Ireland . . . all of them killed while they were being tortured or just afterwards.” Talbot summarized.

Sherlock nodded his head. John thought he was going to be sick.

~Q~

Bond knocked on the door as Q stood silently beside the operative. James looked at Q and could see the anxious look on the young man’s face. He held the photo of Hanna from the parade. James could see the slight shiver in the paper.

“Q?”

“I’m okay, James. Don’t worry.” Q forced himself to still.

The door opened and a dark skinned man stood there. He looked between to the two men with a suspicious eye.

“Yes?”

“Hello, my name is Holmes, Ford Holmes. Lewis Stover? I was told you used to work for the Observer as a free-lance photographer.”

“Yeah, the Observer and the Guardian . . . so?” Stover crossed his arms over his chest.

“I have this photograph . . . it’s from fourteen years ago. The Observer said you took it at the parade to honor the anniversary of the Miner’s Strike.” Q held the photo out for Stover to look at.

The man leaned forward and looked at it. Then he reached out for the photo and Q let him take it. Stover studied it for a few seconds.

“Carlyle . . . something Carlyle . . . Hanna! Yeah, I remember now. She was killed on Archibald Carlyle’s estate west of here. The cops were all hush hush about it. The old man made them shut up.” Stover handed the photo back to Q, then looked carefully at him. “You were Carlyle’s grandson, right?”

Q blushed slightly, then nodded his head once.

“The editor at the newspaper said you might have other photos from that day.”

“Sure . . . come on in.” The man backed away from the door and let James and Q enter the flat. “You know, back then we were still using film. We hadn’t gone completely digital yet. I have sheets and sheets of old photos. It might take me a few minutes to find it.”

“Not a problem.” Q said as he stopped himself from looking around the flat.

Stover looked at the back of the photo then handed it back. James took it and looked at the image again. He studied Hanna’s face. She was looking away from the parade and across the street towards the camera. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Her hands were clinched. The knuckles across the back of her hands were white. Something was terrifying her.

Stover stepped into a small room with numerous file boxes stacked five high. He wandered from one stack to another, quickly reading through the labels on the side of the boxes. He found one and gave a little air punch.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Stover asked.

“Any photos from that day that show Hanna. The people around her . . . where she was standing . . .” Q explained.

Stover pulled out a file folder. It have dozens of photo proof sheets. He spread them out across a drafting table. Using a magnifying glass he quickly scanned the sheets. He paused and pointed to three different photos.

“These are the only ones I could find.” Stover said.

Q looked at them and studied the faces around her. He shook his head. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

“What about across the street from her. She was looking at someone.” Bond said. Q looked at James. “She was frightened, Q. She saw someone who frightened her.” He held out the photo for Q to look at.

Stover went back and looked through the photos again. “There is no way of telling.”

Q glanced at Bond. Neither of them wanted to admit it was the end of the search. Q stepped forward and looked at the various sheets of proofs.

“Can we take copies of the photos from around the time you photographed Hanna? Let us take them and compare them to other photos we have.”

Stover looked down at the proofs then hummed.

“I would like to help . . .”

“But?” James asked.

“Well, the Observer is going to do an exposé on a series of missing women. Hanna Carlyle was the first woman who went missing.”

“But my cousin was found. She’s not missing.” Q said confused.

“Well, yea, but she disappeared for two days. And since then over two dozen women have gone missing.”

“Over fourteen years?” Bond asked.

“Yea . . . at first only one or two a year. Then lately, it’s been every three to four months between disappearances. All women, all blonde like your cousin.”

Q looked at James. If there had been women disappearing for the last fourteen years, then they couldn’t be associated with the serial killer of men from fifteen years ago. There could be another killer they needed to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	12. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the interest in this story. I'm really getting into writing a good old fashion mystery. It is fun. I hope you will enjoy Mycroft catching up to Q again.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

James and Q drove silently back to the estate. The news of the missing women was disturbing but neither man thought the missing women and the murders from fifteen years ago could be related. Hanna was found after two days. Her death was violent but not unknown. The closer they came to the Carlyle Holmes home, the less they believed there was any connections.

The car drove down the long gravel drive to the front of the house. They were three hundred yards from the house when Q noticed the black saloon sitting in front of Archibald’s red door.

“Mycroft is here.” Q said so softly it was almost to himself.

“I thought he would be showing up soon. Surprised it took him this long.” James shifted the car down.

They pulled up behind the other black car. Parking. Both men sat there for moment before speaking.

“Ready to face the firing squad?” James asked.

“I think Grandfather has surely reined him in by now. Besides, as you keep telling me, I’m the Quartermaster of MI6, what harm can he do to me?”

“If any, I’ll shoot him for you.” James leaned closer to Q. His chest rubbing up against the younger man’s shoulder.

Q turned and looked into Bond’s laughing blue eyes. They shined brightly in the dim light inside the car. Bond’s face was wrinkled with a smile and it made Q feel warm and safe. He knew how dangerous 007 could be and he had the man’s guarantee to use those skills for Q’s own protection. Q returned James’ smile with a small reassuring laugh.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

The two men got out of the vehicle and went into house they were sharing. If Mycroft wanted to lecture Q, then he would have to travel the last few feet to do so.

As soon as they stepped into the house, they saw the destruction. The sitting room Q had been using for the investigation was in disarray. The furniture was upended and scattered. The photographs and notes that had been pinned to the walls, were ripped down and torn; strewn across the tile floor. In some places the wallpaper was also torn away, showing the intensity of the attack.

Standing in the middle of the destruction was Mycroft Holmes. Neatly dressed and calm.

“MYCROFT! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?” Q shouted at his brother.

“Sherrinford, even to your untrained eye, it is apparent that I’m not to blame for this . . . vandalism.”

Q and James stepped further into the room and separated. Each looking down at their destroyed work.

“My laptop?! Where is it?!” Q knelt down by the over turned table looking through the scattered papers.

“I came here to speak to you about this folly. When I arrived, I found the room in this condition. How long have you and Mister Bond been absent?”

“Four and half hours.” James said as he used his foot to push some of the debris aside. “The journal is gone, Q.”

“So is my laptop.” Q said defeated. He stood up, his shoulder’s slumped. “What about the book on torture?”

“Also missing. How secure is the computer?”

“They won’t be able to access it. But I deactivated the GPS chip. We won’t be able to track it.” Q sounded defeated.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “What is this all about? Why would anyone be interested in who killed a drunk and teenage girl over ten years ago?”

“Grandfather is interested . . . and apparently someone else who doesn’t want the truth to come out.” Q looked at his brother.

“Grandfather is old. He is losing his grip on reality.”

“I think it might be you, if you think you can overrule him.”

“Sherrinford, we need to be working together, not feuding like . . .”

“Like you and Sherlock.” Q glared at his older brother.

“Family, Sherrinford. You are my brother. Our parents want to see you.”

“I am your half-brother. We share a father. My mother is dead. Your mother is Violet. I sincerely doubt she wishes to see me.”

Mycroft glanced away from the younger Holmes. His grip on his umbrella tightened then released.

“She was devastated by your . . . disappearance. She blamed herself. Father blamed Archibald. It cause a fission in the family. Sherlock dealt with it the worst possible way. It almost cost him his life.”

Q stood silently staring at his brother. James could see the shine of tears in the young man’s eyes.

“You think telling your brother, he is to blame for their mistakes will bring him around to your side.” James growled at Mycroft. “Your brother was abandoned here with an abusive pedophile. Marcus was a brute who terrorized a fourteen year old boy. You left him here. All of you left him to be . . . to be . . .”

“James . . . please, don’t. It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter now.” Q lowered his gaze.

Mycroft looked confused for a moment. His gaze moved quickly between the two men.

“Sherrinford, what is he talking about? Did Marcus harm you in any way?”

“The police report was apparently lacking in detail, Mycroft. Somehow, Sherlock got an original copy but someone convinced the authorities to alter the evidence.” Q’s whole body shuddered violently. Then he looked up at his brother. “Uncle Marcus was a rapist. I saw him attack Hanna. When I told him I was going to tell the police, he . . . he raped me too. He told me no one would believe me and that he would kill me if I tried to tell. I felt alone and isolated. I felt none of you cared. I had no choice but to leave.”

James crossed the room and stood in front of Q. He put both of his hands on Q’s shoulders. Q shrugged James’ hands off himself. The two men looked cautiously into each other’s eyes. Q nodded at James, then stepped around him. He looked at his brother. Mycroft was obviously shaken by the news.

“Sherrinford . . . I never thought . . . it was not in the files. I looked through everything. There was no indication . . . if we had known . . .”

“Nothing would have changed.” Q said flatly. James step up beside Q, close enough the young man could feel James’ shoulder nudging his back. “I won’t be seeing any other members of the family. I’ve already been beset by too many of you. As soon as we finish here, I will be returning to MI6.”

James wanted to bring his hand up and rested at the small of Q’s back. He wanted to believe the young man would lean into the touch, but he remained still.

“Sherrinford, I had no way of knowing. If I had . . .”

“I don’t hold any of you accountable. I have just chosen to live without you.”

Mycroft stood silent in the middle of litter. His immaculate muted brown suit elongated his frame and intensified the contrast with the disarray around him. James could see the confusion in the politician’s eyes. He was used to knowing all the information. He was used to being in control, but with Q’s admission, Mycroft Holmes learned he was not in control. He had no power of the situation.

James watched as the man shifted and glanced warily at his younger brother. It was as if Mycroft was weighing the options available to him. Considering a new plan of attack.

“I believe you are misjudging the possibilities open to you, Sherrinford.”

Q raised an eyebrow and looked carefully at his brother.

“I believe there were very few possibilities available to me. I chose the one that best utilize my skills. MI6.”

“MI6 prefers orphans. You are not an orphan. You have a family and powerful connections that will be a hindrance to a career in espionage.” Mycroft started to feel like he was moving onto more stable ground.

“My career in espionage has been very promising for several years now. I consider myself an orphan and there is no hindrance.”

This time it was Mycroft whom raised an eyebrow in speculation.

“You truly don’t believe that once Mallory learns that your grandfather is Archibald Carlyle of Carlyle International and I am your brother that you will be allowed to stay on as the Quartermaster.”

“Why? Because you will tell them I’m a terrorist? A security leak? Really, Mycroft, you can do better than that. I have been working for MI6 for over five years now. They recruited me while I was still working on my doctorate. I sincerely doubt even you will be able to ruin my reputation with SIS.”

“I can make them question every decision you make from this point on. They will wonder if you are acting in the best interest for the service or what is best for your family.” Mycroft said.

“You would do that, wouldn’t you? You really are a manipulative bastard, Mycroft.” Q said coolly. “I wonder what Grandfather has to say about that?”

“Where do you think I learned how to be a manipulative bastard, brother dear?”

The two brothers stared at each other in silence. Neither man giving an inch in submission. Bond finally stepped forward and moved closer to Mycroft.

“If you are done with your threats, Mister Holmes, the Quartermaster and I have work to do.” Bond held his arm out leading towards the door. “Good day.”

A small victorious smile teased at Q’s lips as Mycroft narrowed his eyes at James. The older Holmes’ mouth thinned and he stepped carefully over the debris.

“Don’t believe you are unknown to me, Mister Bond.” Mycroft paused and removed a small notebook from his pocket. He opened to a page and started reading. “Your last psychological evaluation indicated alcohol and substance abuse. Inability to follow orders. As well as a pathological rejection of long term physical relationships base on an unresolved childhood trauma. Leading to a series of meaningless sexual encounters with numerous partners. Tell me, Mister Bond . . . do you even remember their names.”

James took a threating step towards Mycroft but Q stopped him.

“James’ skill set have made him invaluable to England, Mycroft. I wouldn’t doubt his abilities regardless what information your sniffer dogs found.”

“I will be speaking to Grandfather, Sherrinford.”

“Please do. I believe he is looking forward to tell you how Carlyle International will start selling their state of the art microchips on the open market.”

Mycroft stopped walking abruptly. He turned and looked at his brother.

“Open market?”

“Yes, there has been such an interest in them that Grandfather thought it would be advantageous for the company to expand into the Far East markets like China and South East Asia.”

“If China had access to those chips they could learn how to . . .” Mycroft paled. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would if I ask him too.” Q’s eyes twinkled.

“Why would you do that?”

“I won’t if I am allowed to remain an orphan.”

“But Mummy and Daddy?”

“An orphan.” Q said somberly.

“I . . . I don’t know, Sherrinford. I can’t make promises . . . you are being unreasonable.” Q just stared back at his brother. “Give me time.”

“I will give you till I find the person who killed Hanna.”

“What are you going to do if Mallory won’t take you back?” Mycroft asked. He wondered if he could head Q off that way.

“He won’t have a choice.” James interrupted. “I will see to that.”

Mycroft glanced between the two men. Realizing he had been out maneuvered, he nodded and said.

“Please keep me informed on your progress. I will try to explain the situation to our parents and Sherlock. It won’t be easy but maybe we can meet you . . . halfway.”

“You are a politician, Mycroft. I’m sure you can find a diplomatic solution to the problem.” Q said calmly.

“And if you never find out who kill our cousin?”

“Don’t worry. James and I will discover the truth.”

~Q~

It was dark by the time Sherlock and John had returned by train from York. Sherlock was still pacing wildly as John sat pensively on the couch. The memory of the crimes they had been discussing with Detective Inspector Talbot crowded John’s brain.

“The murders stopped fifteen years ago. There haven’t been any others reported since then.” John said. “Does that mean the killer is dead too? Or did he just gave up?”

“Serial killers don’t give up. They escalate. Get bolder, more aggressive. If there is a secession of the crimes, it is usually because the serial killer is either caught or dead. But we aren’t certain the crimes stopped.”

“You mean there could be other murders somewhere in England or Ireland that were committed but not connected to the three Talbot had.”

“Yes, the variables in the victims and method of killing is numerous. Unless the police were specifically looking for medieval torture or witch trials, then the murders might not be linked.”

Sherlock was pacing rapidly around the small flat. His hands were waving franticly around as he talked.

“I need to think! I need to think!” He turned again in midstride and started to the door.

John leaped up from the couch and rushed to stop Sherlock. He blocked Sherlock’s exit. Grapping the taller man by the elbows, John glared at him.

“Don’t you even think about it, mister! You are not going out for more drugs! I won’t let you.”

“John, I can’t focus . . . I need to focus!”

“I know but drugs are not an option!”

“John!”

John looked into Sherlock’s pleading eyes. He could see the frustration and need burning brightly in the silver blue-green eyes. John’s grip loosened on his friend and he softened his expression.

“I might now a technique that can help you.”

“A technique? What could you possible know that I wouldn’t?” Sherlock tipped his head back and looked down at the shorter man.

“Trust me, Sherlock.” John tried to not growl at the other man. “It is something I leaned to do to help me focus.”

“What?”

“It’s a relaxation technique.”

“How is that supposed to work?! What deep breathing?! Honestly, John, don’t be ridiculous!”

John sighed and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at Sherlock. At this moment at least one of them needed to stay calm.

“Sherlock, if you give it a real try . . . and honest try . . . and it doesn’t work, then I’ll never mention it again.”

“Will you let me go out?” Sherlock tipped his head slightly to the side.

“No! It is either my relaxation technique or I punch you in the face again.”

Sherlock pulled back staring warily at his flatmate.

“That doesn’t sound like a reasonable alternative?”

“Well right now, that is about as reasonable as I can be with you. Will you try it?”

Sherlock looked carefully at John’s face. He could see the worried brow and the dark circles under John’s eyes. Sherlock had caused those marks that marred John’s handsome face. A sudden uncomfortable wave washed over the taller man. He nodded his head.

“I’ll try your technique.”

John sighed again and let a small smile curve his mouth.

“Alright, let’s lay down on the couch.”

“Both of us?” Sherlock felt a flutter in his stomach.

“No, I’ll sit down and you lay down. Put your head in my lap.”

The flutter intensified. John pulled Sherlock over to the couch. He sat down next to the armrest and twisted his body so Sherlock could lay down and place his head in John’s lap.

“Close your eyes.” John said softly, as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Sherlock felt like he should protest again, but he hesitated before complying with John’s request. He closed his eyes and waited. John slowly started rubbing Sherlock’s temples in broad sweeping circles. Sherlock could feel how warm the pads of John’s fingers felt on his skin. Sherlock licked his lips and tried to lay still.

“Now, just listen to my voice and relax. Breathe slowly and deeply. In and out.” John’s fingers moved back and into Sherlock’s hair. The younger man’s skin seem to come alive with touch of the other man. “Focus on me, Sherlock. Focus on my voice.”

John’s fingers slide softly over Sherlock’s brow, smoothing out the wrinkles and then rubbing down his temples and finishing by gently pinching Sherlock’s earlobes. His eyes swept over the younger man’s face. The pale skin tight over sharp cheek bones. John took a deep breath, smelling the aroma of lemon and vanilla from Sherlock’s shower gel. The scent of chemicals and the slight trace of tobacco.

“Picture a blank chalkboard, black and empty.” Johns’ fingers swept back across Sherlock’s brow and into his hair. Sherlock concentrated on the sensation of John’s fingers and the warmth of John’s leg under Sherlock’s neck. The softness of John’s voice as he talked. Sherlock began to feel himself float and relax. He slipped under the surface of John’s spell. He wanted to stay just like this. Feeling John touch his skin while the doctor spoke softly to him.

“Now, place a photograph of each victim up on the wall. Look at their faces . . . look at their bodies. See everything . . . everything bit of detail. The locations. Now concentrate on their faces. There is something important to see. Something important about the dates of their deaths. Relax and look at the photos.”

John was almost whispering as his finger smoothed over Sherlock’s skin. The dark haired man’s breathing had slowed and deepened. He was completely relaxed as he laid in John’s lap. John’s fingers played in Sherlock’s hair and softly stroked through the inky curls.

“Tell me what you see, Sherlock . . . Astounded me.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes flashed open. He took a quick deep breath as every muscle in his body tensed.

“Sherlock?!” John asked concerned by his friend.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked and looked up into John’s eyes. Then he smiled up at John.

“I need to see the records of Carlyle International.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	13. Sabotage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some one sabotages the investigation. While Q and Bond sabotage their developing relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have picked up the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo vibe from this story. Yes, I'm using the basic premise of that story. There are several elements form the movie- Like the murders from years before needing to be solved. A serial killer. And a very dysfunctional family. While there are also difference- the victims are male. The person whom everyone thought was dead is the one who solving the crime. And no computers. I hope I haven't disappointed anyone. 
> 
> This chapter is very close to the movie with one major exception.

Sabotage

Bond paced around the debris scattered through the room while Q was trying to pick up the various photos and pieces of paper. Trying to organize piles and deciding what was to far too damage to be salvaged. Their frustration from meeting Mycroft still hung heavy in the air. Q especially was still upset. His skin felt like needles were being pricking him. He kept muttering to himself. Although, the threat of the microchip had held Mycroft at bay, Q knew his brother would quickly find another way to force Q to leave MI6. The fact he had obtained access to Bond’s personal file was disturbing. Mycroft had information not even Q had been privy too. He could see James was angry and wondering how Mycroft had been able to get the information.

“You don’t possible plan to keep this hunt going, do you?” Bond ask as he kicked at the pile of torn clothing. His frustrations with Mycroft and Sherlock were wearing on him.

“If I remember correctly you kept hunting individuals with fall less to go on.” Q said as he dusted off a photo of his cousin and pinned it back up on the torn wallpaper.

“Q, I was trying to save England, not cater to the whims of some old senile man.”

Q spun and glared at the blonde. James could see the anger in the hazel green eyes.

“My grandfather may be old but he is not senile. He is still the main power in the company and prime ministers and MP’s search out his advice.”

James shook his head in frustration.

“He obviously taught Mycroft well. He just as much an arse as his grandfather. Is there anyone in your family who is normal?”

“Normal is defined by your peer group. Tell me, do any of your friends act according to society norms or are they all sociopaths and addicts?”

Bond wanted to remind Q that his brother Sherlock could easily fit into the category of sociopath and addict, but decided against it. It was obvious the two men were beginning to feel the strain of the past few days.

“Q, this is ridiculous. We can’t go on. We can’t find a murderer from fifteen years ago.”

He stepped over a broken chair and tried to reach for Q’s shoulders. He wanted to reassure the young man. Q quickly backed away before James could touch him. James could see the anger growing. Anger and fear.

“007, I am capable of doing anything I set my mind too. Just because my preferred method of investigation doesn’t include fucking someone or blowing something up doesn’t mean I’m not as effective if not more so than you.”

James stopped still. His expression hardened as his blue eyes turned cold. His own frustration turning to anger.

“I know perfectly well what you are capable of, Q. And you know what I’m capable of. We have worked together for far too long to devolve into childish arguments.”

“That is questionable when I’m dealing with a man who insists on being a child. Now either help me or get out of my way.”

“The journal is gone, your computer is gone and all we have now is questions and an ever growing list of suspects. We are not the police. We are not forensic scientists. We aren’t even mystery novel readers. This is a complete waste of time. We have neutralized Mycroft with the threat of the microchips. Let’s go back to MI6 where we belong.”

Q squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his hands.

“Go then! Go back to MI6!”

“I can’t go and you know that. I can’t go without you . . . and I thought we were working to get you back there. What’s happened? Have you decide you want to return to the bosom of your family? You prefer these vipers to your friends at 6?”

“I don’t have any friends!”

James felt a painful stab to his chest. “You know that is a lie, Q. You know there people there you care about you. Anne, TJ, Margo . . . damn it, Q! I care about you!”

“Well don’t waste your time, 007. I’m not like your other conquests. I’m not going to swoon at the first smile you give me.”

“As if I would want you in my bed.” Bond growled.

As soon as he said it, James wanted to take it back. He saw Q’s face instantly change from anger and frustration to emotional pain. The flush of anger disappearing as Q’s face paled. Q quickly ducked away from Bond’s gaze and went back to cleaning up. He grabbed several sheets of paper and tried to spread them flat.

“Well, good . . . we understand each other . . . it is too late now, but if you contact Mallory in the morning, I’m sure he will send another operative to keep an eye on me. I’m still under arrest, I presume. You can return to London and resume active duty.”

“Q, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You didn’t, 007. Don’t concern yourself.” Q stood and set the papers down on the table. “I will not be able to sleep tonight. Go on to bed. I will be fine.”

Bond didn’t want to end the conversation this way. “Q, let’s talk.”

“There is nothing to say. I need to finish this project. You wish to return to London.”

“Q?”

“Bond, please. You are distracting me from my work. Just go.”

“I will call Mallory in the morning and have another agent assigned to you.” James said not really wanting to do so.

“Fine. He can have someone helicoptered down here before noon and then you will be free of me.”

Q knelt down and ducked his head so Bond couldn’t see his face. Frustrated at himself, Bond left Q alone. He went outside to walk in the cold night air; to clear his head. He didn’t hear the soft crying as he left.

The night air was cold but Bond didn’t feel it. He started walking. First into the woods to follow the path that led to Norman and Michael’s house. He had no intentions of seeing the two men but he thought a walk along the cliffs and down to the beach below would help. Maybe watching the waves breaking in the moonlight would help him calm down. It had in the past.

Half way there he noticed an overgrown path leading deeper into the woods. He turned down the path and away from the houses. The woods were darker here and the once used path was now covered with vines and fallen limbs. Bond stumbled in the half-light as he followed the path a quarter of mile in. Then, emerging from the darkness, like a forgotten memory from a dream, James saw a dilapidated cottage. The white stucco walls were cracked and mold stained the plaster. The roof was in need of repair and a few of the darken windows appeared to have broken glass in the frames. It had to be Dagmar Carlyle’s old painting studio. James approached warily.

He tried the door handle but the door was locked. He stepped around the small building, carefully avoiding the overgrown weeds that surround the outside walls. The river stone boarders of the flower beds were broken up. James cupped his hands and leaned into peer. The inside was undistinguished shadows and shapes in varying shades of black. He couldn’t make out anything in the interior of the small building. He circled the building and returned to the front door. He paused for a moment and considered kicking in the door. But then he thought better of it. He would come back in the morning and investigate the cottage.

When he remember he was supposed to call Mallory in the morning, Bond growled. He swore he wasn’t going to let the little boffin tell him what to do. Bond gritted his teeth and turned around to walk back to the main path.

The bark of the tree just to the right of him exploded as the 7.62x62 round sheered through the wood. Bond ducked, ignoring the burn as the wood and shrapnel sliced into his skin. He couldn’t tell where the shot had been fired from. He knelt down in the brush as his eyes scanned through the darkness and the shadows of trees. His gun was already out and searched for a target.

Another shot rang out and this time it struck a window of the cottage. It shattered the glass right behind Bond’s head. He thought it came from the left, he took two shots in that direction then took off running to the right. He was off the derelict path and careened into the woods. Limbs snagged his jumper and scratched his skin as he ran. He felt the warm blood sliding down his face from the cut at his temple.

A third shot rang out but Bond could not tell if it was anywhere near him. The sound traveled through the forest, distorting its direction. He dodged trees and ducked under limbs. He tripped over a fallen log hidden by ferns and crashed to the ground. Disappearing into the bracken as he fell. Bond laid silently on the moist ground as he listened for footsteps chasing after him in the darkness. He heard nothing.

He waited, laying perfectly still in the dark bracken. Five minutes, then ten. After fifteen minutes, he slowly lifted himself up and looked around him. The forest was still. Only sound was the wind moving the upper branches. The trees swayed in the wind coming up off the water. James hesitantly stood up, his heart still raced. The adrenaline still pumped through his body, preparing him to evade another attack. None came.

Slowly and cautiously he walked back to the house where Q was. Opening the door he stepped in to see Q has changed into his sleep clothes and was trying to sort out the mess of photos and notes across the living room floor.

Q looked up and saw the James’ bloody face and torn jumper.

“James! What happened?!” Q dropped the papers he was holding. He rushed forward and reached up to cup James’ face. The blood still warm and slick across the man’s cool face.

“Did you hear the shots?” James asked suspiciously.

“I thought I heard something but I thought it was a car backfiring. I never thought anyone would be shooting at you. Are you hit?”

“No.” James pulled back away from Q’s hand.

The young man saw the distance and reserve still in Bond’s eyes. Q took a step back, and lowered his hand.

“You’re going to need that stitched.”

“It will be fine.” Bond said as he stepped over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.

“007, I’m still your Quartermaster. Please go upstairs and clean up. I will be get supplies and stitch your scalp. I won’t be as efficient as Medical but we both know there is neither the opportunity nor the inclination for you to use them. Go.”

James stared unemotionally at Q over his tumbler as he took a drink. Q had changed clothes while Bond had been out walking in the woods. The young man had on an old soft t-shirt and a ridiculous pair of Dr. Who sleep pants. He looked so young dressed that way. James forgot his anger that had propelled him out of the house a short time earlier.

Bond set the glass down and walked passed the younger man without a word. He went up to the master bedroom where he had been sleeping. Bond removed his torn clothing and let them piled on the floor of the bedroom. The bathroom was small. The shower was included in the tub. There was a single sink vanity and the toilet. The hot water poured over him and quickly chased the cold from his skin. He stayed in there for quite some time. His head bowed down between his shoulders as the spray massaged his back.

There was a knock on the door, then it opened slightly.

“Are you ready for me?” Q called out through the crack in the door.

James sighed and stood up straight. His muscles were finally not complaining and his head was less cloudy with adrenaline.

“Give me a moment.” Bond turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

He dried himself efficiently then wrapped the damp towel around his waist. He was stepping out of the tub when he said.

“C’mon on in.”

Q tentatively opened the door. Not knowing to what degree of undress Bond would appear to him. Relieved to see the towel snug across his hips, although rather low. Q came in quickly to keep most of the warmth and steam in the small room.

“Sit down on the toilet.” Q said as he spread out a towel. He laid down the contents from a first aid kit. Q also had a tumbler of alcohol. He handed the glass to James, who took it with a raised eyebrow. “Anesthesia.”

James drank it down in one gulp. Q took another towel and carefully towel dried Bond’s hair. Stepping closer, Q straddled one of James’ legs. Q leaned forward to look carefully at the damage to James’ scalp.

“There are two different cuts. Bullets?”

“Tree bark.”

Q leaned back slightly to look into James’ eyes. The intense blue seemed to be a deeper shade than the normal crystal blue. Q felt flushed but reassured himself, it was the heat of the room. He leaned forward again and sprayed an antibiotic and deadening agent into the wound. Slowly and carefully he pulled the edges of the wound closed and started to stitch.

Bond couldn’t look up. He had to face forward. Right at Q’s body. A mere four inches away from him. The soft grey t-shirt covered the young man’s torso, but Bond’s imagination pictured smooth blemish free skin. Taut and pale over thin ribs and whipcord muscles. He could imagine himself stroking his hands up that skin. Feeling the shiver of the man beneath his touch as James’ fingertips grazed over a sensitive spot.

This wasn’t right. He knew it. He kept telling himself over and over again, but his body felt something else. James swallowed and closed his eyes. Now, without the sense of sight, Bond’s body intensified his sense of smell. The scent of bergamot and tea. Cotton and a slight spicy musk. Bond’s mouth watered.

“First one is done.” Q said, ignorant of James’ predicament.

“Fine, don’t worry about . . .” He tried to stand.

“Sit down, 007. I will tell you when you are done.” Q pushed the man back down on the closed toilet lid. He too felt uncomfortable as he stood close to Bond. The warmth from the man’s skin as his fingers brushed against it. The smell of blood and antiseptic but also something delicious-wood smoke and cinnamon. Scotch and expensive leather. Q’s fingers began to shake.

James twisted and forced himself to concentrate on anything other than the young man standing in front of him. He glanced down at the hideous sleep pants. The thin fabric did not conceal much beneath it. The outline of partially interested cock bulged out from the royal blue. James could feel his own groin twitched and he tried to twist away.

“Bond! I’m not an expert at this and would prefer you sit still.”

“It’s good enough, Q. Just finish that last stitch and let me up.”

Q quickly tied the thread off. He snipped the ends and stepped back. Bond stood up quickly and stepped towards the door. The room was small and as James stepped forward, Q twisted back, trying to get out of the way. Unfortunately, James bumped into Q and knocked him backwards into the wall. Instantaneously, James reached out and caught the young man; wrapping his arm around Q’s waist and pulling him back up onto his feet and into James’ chest.

For a brief moment the two men just stared at each other. The heat of James’ crystal blue eyes locked onto Q’s green eyes. Then James leaned forward. His lips pressed lightly into Q’s. Hesitantly then more assertive. Not asking but taking. His grip around Q’s waist tightened and Q’s hands came up and smoothed over James’ naked shoulders.

James’ tongue probed at the seam of Q’s lips and when they opened, James pushed in to taste tea and oranges. Warm, sweet and addictive. James’ free hand came up and cupped Q’s cheek, holding the young man’s face in place for James to continue the kiss.

Then he heard the whimper come from deep in Q’s throat. Horror slipped through James’ lust. The thought he had forced himself on the fragile Quartermaster made Bond nauseous. He pulled back expecting to see fear and betrayal in Q’s jade green eyes.

“Q! . . . I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

His words were swallowed as Q leaned forward and took control of James’ mouth with his own. The young Quartermaster’s finger dug into the muscles of Bond’s shoulder and Q clung to James. His body pushing forward, wanting more contact.

“Please James, don’t say anything else.” Q whispered into James’ skin as he moved down to the man’s neck. Kissing and tasting the man’s skin as he went.

James felt an overpowering wave of lust hit him as he felt the young lithe body move against his. The warm dry lips of Q caress across the tender skin under his ears. The hand that had been cupping his cheek moved back and dragged through Q’s inky curls. While the other hand slipped under the worn t-shirt to feel the hot skin beneath.

“Q, God how much I’ve wanted . . .” James mumbled into the man’s hair and he twisted the two of them and pushed them out of the bathroom.

Carefully and deftly Bond negotiated them towards the bed. When the back of Q’s knees touched the mattress, James pushed and two fell onto the covers. Suddenly, Q tensed. He went ridged as a board and pushed back. James kept his arms still around the young man but Q struggled to free himself. Pushing James away and twisting his face to prevent any more kisses to his mouth.

“STOP! PLEASE STOP! DON’T . . . DON’T HURT ME!” Q shouted.

James’ hands flew off Q’s body as if they were burned. He rolled off the young man and onto his side. His heart racing with both lust and concern. Q twisted away from Bond and curled up into a ball on the edge of the bed.

“Q . . . I would never hurt you. Please, believe me. I would never . . .” James whispered.

“Fuck it all . . . I’m sorry James . . . I know you wouldn’t hurt me . . . I know . . . oh why didn’t I just die fifteen years ago?!”

James rolled up on his elbows and looked over Q’s shaking body. He gently combed the hair back from Q’s face as he watched the tears leak from those beautiful eyes.

“Because if you had, I would never have met you. I would never have known what a wonderful person you are. You are the most intriguing and alluring person I know.”

Q rolled over onto his back. “Alluring? I’m dirty. Broken.”

“No, Q. You are not broken. Marcus didn’t damage you. You are too strong for some bastard like that to make you less than what you are. He was damaged . . . broken. You are resilient.”

Q pulled himself off the bed and went to stand in the corner. James remained still. Watching the fear and doubt play across Q’s expressions.

“But I can’t even kiss someone without freaking out.” Q whimpered.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, Q. Just give me a chance.”

“But if I can’t ever do more. . .”

“That doesn’t matter . . . well yes it does matter but we will take it at your pace. I will wait for you because I believe you are worth waiting for.”

“And if I can never . . .?”

James moved to get off the bed but he noticed Q tense as if he was ready to bolt. He slowly eased himself back down and watched as Q shifted his weight from one foot to another. His body swaying gently to the left and right. Distantly, James recognized the limbic response to fear and anxiety.

“Q, it doesn’t matter . . . All that matters is that we are together. Whichever way we are together. A team. Like MI6.”

Suddenly, Q expression changed. He thought for moment the words were familiar.

“You are so adamant about me returning to MI6. Do you think seducing me will guarantee my return?” Q asked stopping his swaying as he now stared fiercely at James. Q began to wonder if Bond was playing him like a mark.

“Q! You can’t believe that I’m that cold hearted. I was supposed to take you back to Mallory and 6. I went against orders to bring you here. I actually do care about you. I want you there but more importantly, I want you.”

“And if I can not come back, would you still want . . . me?” Q nervously asked.                                                                               

“Yes.” James smiled trying to relieve Q’s fears.

Q stared at the man. Reading and rereading ever line and nuance of the man’s face. Q’s hand came up to his face and he nervously nipped at his thumbnail.

“You are an excellent liar, James. Thank you. I almost believed you. I wanted to . . .”

“Q, I’m not lying.”

Q stared for a moment longer then took off. Rushing from the room and down the hallway to his bedroom. James moved the follow but he heard the door slam before he reached his door. James fell back into the wall and sighed. He knew he couldn’t leave Q here alone, but now Q wouldn’t want him anywhere around him.

The worse part was Bond wasn’t lying this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape occurs far too often in our societies. It is a violent crime that leave deep scars that are often invisible to the rest of world.


	14. Needful Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Sherlock start to find answers to questions while James and John ask new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow James and John become friends the more I write this. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Needful Conversations

The train down from London to Sussex was crowded. Sherlock and John couldn’t sit together. John was stuck sitting by the window while Sherlock was sitting across the aisle from him by the opposite window. Four other passengers sat between them. Sherlock had leaned back in the blue upholster seat and listened to the mundane chatter over the whistling of the wheels on metal rails, wishing the train ride was already over.

The interview at Carlyle International had been somewhat informative but not as much as Sherlock had hoped. He had learned from the map on the wall of the reception area that there were Carlyle International facilities located near some of the deaths. There were two in York. One in was Wexford, Ireland. But there was never a Carlyle facility near Overton. Frustrated he decided to return to Sussex and speak to his grandfather personally to decide if there had been a connection between Carlyle and the killings.

Deep in his mind palace he reviewed the information he had already gathered. Four murders in Northern England and Ireland. All men. All tortured by medieval techniques. Peter Wilson. Male and murdered in Southern England by a method used in the medieval times to detect witches. All except one were killed where his family had offices. All but one killed before Marcus had died. Blake had died six months after Marcus had drowned.

“You’re John Watson, aren’t you?” Sherlock heard the voice of a young man.

Sherlock let one eye slowly open half way to spy on John. John was looking at the man sitting across from him. A young man of Mediterranean extraction with wavy black hair. John smiled at the young man meekly then nodded.

“Yes, I’m sorry were you one of my patients?”

“Oh, no. I’m a fan.” The young man leaned forward and rested his hands on the table separating him from John. “I’ve been reading your blog from the beginning. Wow, you have such an interesting life.”

John’s smile broadened and Sherlock could see John blush slightly. John glanced over at Sherlock, but the detective feined sleep. John turned back and smiled again at the young man.

“No, I don’t have an interesting life. My friend Sherlock has the interesting life. I just tag along.”

“Well, no one would know anything about him without you. And the way you describe the adventures you two have . . . honestly tell me, have you ever thought of writing professionally?”

Sherlock watched at John raised both eyebrows together is surprise. “I never really thought my writing was that good.”

“It is . . . I mean, I would read any book you’d write.”

Sherlock covertly watched and the young man and John talked softly, as the train sped south. Their words lost in the hum of other passengers. John seemed to be enjoying the conversation. As the train pulled into the station, Sherlock watched the man leaned closer over the table. John mirrored the man’s movements. Sherlock quit trying to be covert about listening to the conversation taking place on the opposite side of the carriage from him and stared at John and young man.

He watched as John blushed again then his expression softened. The young man slide a piece of paper across the table to John and held it under his fingertips before John’s hand. In a moment, John took the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. Both John and man leaned back into their seats and returned to speaking in normal voices. Sherlock could hear John speak about the case involving the aluminum crutch. Sherlock couldn’t concentrate on the story as his mind was thinking about the note that now inside John’s jacket.

When they got off the train and traveled through the station. Waiting at the kerb was Bond in the car. Sherlock quickened his pace and grabbed the passenger door handle just as John was reaching for it. The two men bumped into each other as Sherlock pulled the door open.

“Sherlock?”

“Just getting the door for you.” Sherlock gave John as neutral an expression as he could. John paused and looked at the man for a moment then slipped into the front seat with Bond. Sherlock closed the door and got into the backseat, behind John. Bond pulled the car away from the kerb and started to drive back to the Carlyle estate.

“We have so good news and bad news.” James started to talk.

“Good news.” Sherlock said.

“We spoke to the photographer in Dover. He had extra sheets of photos from the day she went missing. Pictures of both sides of the street.”

“Bad news?” John asked turning to Bond.

“Someone broke into the house and ransacked it. The diary is gone as well as Q’s computer. All the work he had done is either missing or destroyed.”

Sherlock turned to look at Bond’s reflection in the mirror.

“Something else happened.” It was a statement and not a question.

Bond hesitated before answering. “Your brother, Mycroft showed up. He and Q had it out. I believe he won’t be any trouble.”

“But . . .”

“Q asked me to leave.” Bond said flatly.

“You are still here, though.” Sherlock noted. “Why haven’t you left?”

“I have been ordered to protect the Quartermaster.”

“You were ordered to return him to London. You disobeyed that order, why did you choose to obey the one to guard him.”

Bond’s eyes glanced up into the rearview mirror and at Sherlock staring at him. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds till Bond’s eyes returned back to the road.

“What did you learn up north?”

“There were four murders up there. Three around York and the one in Wexford. Different forms of torture but everyone was male and raped.” John said as his eyes glanced out the side window. He tried to not remember the photos of the dead men. “Also, Sherlock . . . I will be wanting that phone number back.”

Bond glance quickly at John and saw the angry set of the other man’s jaw. Bond glanced back up at the mirror again and saw a slight flush to Sherlock’s face.

“What phone number?” Sherlock asked.

“The one you pickpocketed from me back there. Give it.”

“Why did that man give you his number?” Sherlock asked defensively.

“None of your damn business. Give it back!”

Sherlock crossed his legs and folded his arms over his chest. Glancing out the window he said. “I tossed it away.”

“No you didn’t.” John was almost growling.

“Why is it so important?”

“Maybe I would like to go out for a pint with him. Maybe it was nice to talk to someone who liked my writing. Maybe it’s none of your bloody business.”

Sherlock sighed and reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper the man had given John.

“Etienne Le Bouf. Sounds contrived.”

“Sounds French.”

“He didn’t look French. He looked suspect. I think he may be a confidence man.”

John raised his hand and held it out for Sherlock to give him the paper. The silence dragged out between the two men. Bond could hear Sherlock grinding his teeth before the paper was slapped into John’s hand.

John pulled his hand back and looked at the slip before folding it and replacing it back into his pocket. His attention was now straight forward as the car drove through the countryside and back to the house.

~Q~

Sherlock and his brother sat in the library of the older house on the estate. The room smelled of age and dust. Archibald Carlyle was being pushed into the room in his wheelchair. The wheels humming slightly across the highly polished wooden floors. He did not smile when he saw Sherlock.

“Sherrinford . . . Sherlock . . . what is it that you need from me.” Archibald’s attention was fixed on his youngest grandson.

Robert pushed the man till he was sitting between the two men.

“Information.” Sherlock said realizing his presence was unappreciated.

Archibald narrowed his eyes at Sherlock then turned to Sherrinford. “Do you have any information regarding who murdered my son and granddaughter?”

“Marcus was a drunk. He fell in and hit his head. Simple drowning. Nothing more.” Sherlock snapped. “Why did you have the police change the reports on Sherrinford’s disappearance and Hanna’s death?”

Archibald’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you . . .”

“The reports were changed before they reached the family and the press. Someone forced the police to change the reports. Someone powerful. The only person who had the power and the willingness to lie was you.” Sherlock said coolly.

“You were always like your mother, Sherlock. You were not a Carlyle like Mycroft. No, you enjoyed disrobing people with your deductions and cruelty.” Archibald said harshly.

“Being disowned by the Carlyles would not be an insult.”

“I know you happily take the money from the trust.” Snapped Archibald.

“Yes and immediately donate it to the Trade Unionist Party.” Sherlock smiled.

“Enough, you two. Grandfather we have found out several things but they don’t make sense. We need to ask some frank question to try and fit the pieces together.” Q said glancing back and forth between the two arguing men.

Archibald Carlyle looked at his youngest grandson, then smiled. “Of course, Sherrinford.” He turned back to Sherlock. “I had the reports changed to not burden my sons. Yes, I knew about what had happened to you, Sherrinford. Even before you told me. That is why I always believed you ran away instead of being killed. As for Hanna . . . given her mother’s delicate hold on reality, if she had known how horrific Hanna’s death was . . . I feared for her. As it was, she was diminished to the point she is now hospitalized and under constant watch.”

“Do you think she knew and didn’t tell anyone? That was what finally sent her over the edge?” Q asked.

Archibald sat still thinking about it then shook his head. “No, she was always delicate. You know artistic temperament. I think Marcus’ murder undermined her grasp and Hanna was the final straw.”

Q nodded his head then glanced at Sherlock. Hoping his brother would contain his acidic opinions.

“Are you familiar with a farming community up north called Overton?” Sherlock asked Archibald, while he kept his eyes fixed on his brother.

The old man sat in his wheel chair and glanced off into the distance. “Overton . . . Overton . . . near York?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said surprised the man knew of the town. He turned back to look at his grandfather.

“Yes, at one time we were going to build a set of warehouses there for our aeronautical division, but Marcus said it was wrong. Something about accessibility.”

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “So Marcus and Carlyle International were in Overton . . . when?”

“I don’t remember exactly . . . 2000 maybe 2001. Norman would know. It would be in the company ledgers.” Said Archibald.

“Could it have been February of 2000? Sherlock asked remembering the death of Christopher Liddle.

“It could have been.”

Sherlock looked around the library. “You used to have a books with all the newspaper clippings of articles regarding Carlyle International.”

“We keep those at our headquarters in London. The recent ones.”

“I would like to look at older ones. From fourteen to twenty years ago. Are they in London too?”

Archibald thought for a moment. “London offices have the past five years. Any archived articles over five years would be at our York offices.”

“I need access to them.” Sherlock said eagerly.

“Is it necessary to find out who killed my son and granddaughter?” the old man asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I shall make the arrangements to have them brought here.”

~Q~

John had stayed in the Holmes’ house while Q and Sherlock visited their grandfather. He walked into the kitchen to see Bond removing the cap off a bottle of beer.

“Is there another one of those around here?” John asked.

Bond handed him the opened bottle and retrieved another and opened it. James waved John over to the table and two men sat down.

“Ta.” John said as he tapped the neck of his bottle to James’. “I didn’t take you for a beer drinker.”

“Scotch is for drinking, martinis for seducing . . . beer is for talking.”

“Talking? Are we best friends now?” John’s voice sounded doubtful.

“As long as you don’t try and punch me again.”

“So what are we going to talk about?” John asked savoring the first sip of his beer.

“Does Holmes pickpocket you often?”

“Only when he is bored. I usually miss it, but it was so blatant today, I felt his hand.” John said with a smile as he took another sip of beer. “He is forever stealing stuff off the Scotland Yard detective inspector we work with.”

James’ laugh was an exhalation of breath. “So this guy’s number . . . did you take it to make Sherlock jealous?”

John leaned back in his chair and stared at James for a moment, then down at the table.

“Sherlock and I aren’t a couple. I’m not gay.”

“That didn’t answer the question. And the statement ‘I’m not gay’ doesn’t mean you’re not bi.”

John glanced up at the man sitting across from him. John kept his gaze fixed on James as he took another sip.

“No, it doesn’t. You’re the first in seven years to catch that.”

James smile broadened. “I’m familiar with the army.”

“Well, there was a bloke in medical school, too. To answer your original question, I wasn’t going to keep the number. I mean the guy was nice and all, just not my type.”

“Not thin and pale with wild dark hair and incredible eyes.” James said just before he drank.

John took another sip of his beer. “Are we talking about me or you?”

“We are talking about you. So, you weren’t going to keep the number but Sherlock ticked you off and you decided to rub his face in it by making a point of asking for the number back. Do you think he will finally get the hint you’re interested?” James asked before he took another drink.

“Sherlock is married to his work.” John said semi-dramatic, waving the bottle a beer in the air for affect. “Even if he knew, I doubt it would register with him. He barely realizes when women are flirting with him, let alone a man. Besides I thought we were talking about you and your thin, pale, with dark hair genius.”

“I’m not sure what you are talking about.”

“It’s bloody obvious that you care about Q.”

“He is my Quartermaster. Of course I care.”

John watched James over the top of his beer bottle. The corners of his mouth turned up.

“Of course . . . does every agent of MI bloody 6 disregard orders and goes rogue when their quartermaster asks them to?”

“We call ourselves ‘operatives’ not agents.” James said as he started to push the label away from the bottle with his thumbnail. He hesitated before speaking again. “No, I was trying to help Q, but I don’t think he believes so. Why haven’t you told Sherlock you’re interested in him? Maybe he is ready for an extramarital affair?”

John laughed and almost choked on the mouthful of beer.

“We aren’t what you would call a conventional couple. I mean he’s . . . Sherlock. You know . . . he is brilliant and gorgeous but he is also . . . eccentric. He doesn’t see the world like you and I would. It’s not like it’s black and white to him or varying shades of grey, it’s more what he wants to know and what he doesn’t need to know.”

“And you think he doesn’t need to know how you feel?” James leaned back in his chair. The bottles of beer empty now.

“Do you think Q doesn’t need to know how you feel?”

“We wouldn’t be a conventional couple either. The spy and his quartermaster. It sounds like some ridiculous movie.”

“Any different from the consulting detective and his blogger.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself. Next chapter will have smut in it. I hope I don't turn any of you away. Thanks again for the wonderful comments and encouragement.


	15. Moonlight Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and James come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. If smut is not your thing skip the first half of the chapter and move one to the second. Enjoy.

Moonlight Confessions

The bedroom was dark. The moonlight flooded through the room but only cast a weak light across the covers and the wall. Sherlock and John were still sharing the same bed in Sherlock’s old bedroom. The archival records would not be available for Sherlock to review till the midmorning and begrudgingly he agreed to get some sleep.

The two men both laid on their backs. Neither saying a word. Sherlock could feel the warmth of John beside him. He wanted to reach out and touch the soldier. He wanted to lean over and kiss him, taste his lips. The longer he laid there the more he wanted it. Sherlock was an addicted to John, but he had never indulged. He didn’t know how John’s body would feel under his fingertips. He didn’t know if John would taste of the apples he ate every day with his tea. Sherlock shook with his want and shivered in the warm bed.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John whispered in the dark.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock was fearful his voice would break.

“You’re shaking, do you have a fever?” John rolled up on his side and reached over to touch Sherlock’s cheek. The dark haired man rolled away before John’s hand brushed against him. The simple touch would be too much. Sherlock couldn’t endure an indifferent mechanical touch when every fiber in his body wanted more.

“Sherlock? What is it?” John asked as he watched the younger man flee the bed.

“Nothing, John . . . go to sleep. I’m going downstairs to work on the puzzle.”

“You said you couldn’t go any further without those newspaper articles.”

Sherlock paused at the door, remembering his pout earlier in the evening when his grandfather told them, there would be a delay.

“It’s another puzzle, John.” Sherlock snapped back.

“I threw the phone number away.”

Sherlock’s hand was on the doorknob, but he couldn’t turn it to open it. He stood barefoot on the cool floor but he could feel sweat beginning to spring across his skin.

“Why? I thought you said you were interested in going out drinking with him. Although, you already go out with Gary, I don’t know why you need a new drinking companion.”

“Gary? . . . Greg. Greg Lestrade. And yes I was interested in going out with Etienne. It would be nice to date someone who was interested in me as a person.” John said gently.

“A date? With him? John you aren’t even gay.”

“Yeah, not gay.” John said with a huff.

There was something odd about the way John had said the words. _‘Not gay’_ Sherlock’s mind tried to wrap around the subtext of what John was saying. He wished there was more light in the room so he could see John’s face. The moonlight washed away the colors and definition. John’s face was just a collection of black and white shapes.

“Not gay . . . you always said ‘Not gay’, but you didn’t say straight.” Sherlock said softly.

John shifted back on the bed to rest his back against the headboard.

“You are bi-sexual.” Accused Sherlock.

“It took you long enough to figure that one out. Seven years.”

“So you were flirting with me that first night.”

“Yes, but you quite effectively shut me down. I had to back-pedal quickly.”

“And if I hadn’t made that stupid comment about being married to my work, would we have been having sex that night?” Asked Sherlock.

“Well, not that night, no. I mean we just met, but . . . we probably wouldn’t have been dancing around each other for the past seven years.” John said light-heartedly.

Sherlock let go the doorknob and turned back into the room.

“Quit joking about this John, this is important to me.” Sherlock snapped at his friend. “Would you be interested in me?”

“Sherlock, you daft idiot . . . I am interested in you. I didn’t know you were interested in anything other than ‘The Work’. You made it blatantly obvious for a long time now that it comes first.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed wishing for more light.

“John, I’ve kept my interest hidden because I thought you would be offended. That you would never want me.”

Even in the weak light reflected off the walls and covers, Sherlock could see John’s smile.

“Sherlock, how could I not want you? You are perfect. You are intelligent and unique. You make me laugh when you’re not being a dick. You’re my friend . . . my best friend.”

“But why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m a gentleman. I would never interfere with a married couple.” John’s voice softened more.

Sherlock stood at the edge of the bed.

“God, why did I ever say that to you?!” John could hear the eye roll. “John Hamish Watson, I want you. I want to be with you. I want us to be together in every way possible. And I want it now.”

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. He pulled the taller man down onto the bed and into his arms.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” John said as he wrapped his arms around the other man’s body. John’s fingers coming up and dragging through Sherlock’s dark curls.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to say, ‘kiss me, John’.”

Without another word, the two men kissed. Warm moist lips against smooth cool ones. A sudden needy noise escaped Sherlock’s throat, but John did not pull back. Instead he pushed forward, taking control of the kiss. Twisting the two of them till Sherlock was underneath him and his body pinned Sherlock down. John’s palm cupped Sherlock’s face as his fingers reached for the silky dark hair. John’s lips mapped out ever curve and dip of the younger man’s face.

Sherlock’s hands slipped under John’s t-shirt and across the heated skin. Sherlock could feel the muscles, taut and strong under the smooth skin. He shivered again and gasped as he felt a warm moist tongue rub over his lower lip.

John did taste of spiced apples. Warm and sweet. Of tea and honey. And the generic soap John used. Sherlock felt light headed. Overwhelmed and yet still safe and protected. John would always save him. Even now as he felt his body surrender to base need, John would safeguard him and his heart.

“Please John, I need you . . . Too much wasted time . . . too much.” Sherlock whispered into the darkness.

“Are you sure?” John whispered into Sherlock skin. His mouth traveling over the man’s throat.

“Yes!”

“What do you want? What will you let me have?”

“All of me . . .” Sherlock moaned as John dragged his teeth over the junction of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “I want you to make love to me . . . I want you . . . in me . . .”

John pulled back so he could look into the shadows of Sherlock’s face. The young man stared up into the dark eyes of the doctor. For the briefest of moments, Sherlock feared John would pull away from him. His grip tightened. Then John smiled and leaned forward. He captured Sherlock’s lips and kissed him as passionately as he could. Imbibing every emotion he felt for the dark haired man into the kiss.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. His chest muscles could no longer function properly. John’s emotions were drowning the man. But even at the edge of suffocation, Sherlock wanted more. He wanted John, just like this. Complete and devoted solely to him. It was exhilarating and invigorating. Sherlock felt heady. He couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh. A deep rolling laugh that spread and filled the room.

Instead of being confused, John understood. He joined in. A soft giggle as he felt Sherlock laughing underneath him, then growing into a chuckle and finally a full blown laughter too. The two men laid together on the bed laughing.

“I knew being with you would be an extraordinary experience.” John said as he rolled off Sherlock and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock rolled up onto his side and looked careful at John. “But you haven’t actually been with me yet.”

John stopped laughing and rolled over so he could stare at Sherlock. He slowly brought his hand up and dragged Sherlock’s fringe from off his forehead.

“You’ll let me?”

“Yes . . . That’s how I want our first time together to be like.”

“First time? That sounds like you are hoping for more than just once.” John whispered.

“Well, a proper extramarital affair should have numerous and varying encounters, don’t you think.”

John smiled. “Yes.” He rolled away from Sherlock and off the bed. He grabbed his wallet and found the condom and small packet of lube he kept there. Returning to the bed he showed both to Sherlock. “I have a confession to make. The last time you had a concussion and we were at A&E, I had you tested. I wasn’t certain what you had been up to while you were faking your death so I made sure you were okay.”

Sherlock didn’t answer him but just nodded. As Sherlock believed. John would always protect and care for him.

“I was tested after Jeanette and I broke up. I haven’t been with anyone since then.” John said.

“Good, because I don’t want to use a condom. I want to feel you. I want to feel you inside me. Marking me as yours.” Sherlock whispered.

This time it was John who shivered. His cock already swollen and ready but the statement from Sherlock pushed more blood into the organ.

“Oh, fuck . . . Sherlock.” John groaned.

John pulled his t-shirt off and kicked his boxers off. He slowly moved back into the bed. With gentle and deft movements, he freed Sherlock of his clothes. Kissing the newly exposed skin as he went. Cherishing every inch of the man’s body.

As his fingers slowly massaged over Sherlock’s opening, John kissed the inside of Sherlock’s creamy white thighs.

“John, I’m not a virgin . . . you don’t have to go slow.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with need.

“You are precious to me, Sherlock. I will do this at my pace.” John bent down and kissed the weeping head of Sherlock’s cock, just simply adding to Sherlock’s desperation.

As John slowly guided himself into Sherlock’s body, the two men stared at each other. Their eyes fixed on nothing else. Sherlock held his legs open and John carefully moved forward, watchful for any discomfort on Sherlock’s part. When he was seated deep in the detective’s body, John took one of Sherlock’s legs and rested the knee on his shoulder. The other leg Sherlock wrapped around John’s body. The blonde doctor gently rolled his spine and tipped his head back at the warm tight embrace of Sherlock’s body around his cock.

Sherlock let a deep baritone groan that John could feel sweeping up his body from where they were connected.

“Oh, fuck . . . Sherlock . . .”

“Come on, John. I’m yours. Take it . . .”

John started rocking his hips forward more forcefully. Both men moaning with growing tension between their bodies. John’s finger pressing deeply into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock tipped his head back as he arched his back. John cursed loudly and snapped his hips forward hard, hitting directly onto Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock clawed at the sheets as sweat broke out across his skin. His mind blanked and all he could feel, see, hear, and know was John and how the man had control of him. His heart raced and his limbs felt weightless. The sensation of John sliding in and out of him was beyond any he ever experienced before. Another snap of those powerful hips and Sherlock was seeing stars before his eyes. Galaxies exploding with every plunge John took into his body. Sherlock was floating in a sea of stars and John was guiding him there.

Sherlock felt the hot hand wrap around his engorged cock and start to squeeze and pull with John’s rhythm.

“Com’ on, Sherlock. Let me feel you.” John said. Sweat slipping down his forehead. His blonde hair damp with it.

“John, just a little . . . right there . . . of fuck . . . yes!”

John felt the constriction around him. The rhythmic spasms pushing John over the edge. He cried out, shouting Sherlock’s name. Feeling Sherlock’s arms pulling him down to him. Lips caressing his own then across his face. Arms folding him in tight against Sherlock sweat slick chest. John gasped for breath. He hadn’t come so hard in years . . . if ever.

Together, their panting synchronized and slowed. John twisted to look down into Sherlock’s face. In the moonlight, Sherlock’s eyes were almost greyish white. The two men stared at each other for moment, then smiled again. Laughter playing just under the surface.

John leaned down and kissed the man again. It could never be better than this.

~Q~

James laid in the darkness, thinking about how he could convince Q of his sincerity. He heard the first moans, and his fingers wrapped around the grip of the handgun under his pillow. Listening in the darkness, he quickly identified the source and cause of the various sounds he was hearing. When he heard Watson shout ‘Sherlock’, James smiled. At least two of them was working out their frustrations.

He relaxed and tried to think about something else. Sleep was just about to take him, when he heard the sound of the doorknob turning. Again his hand slipped under the pillow. He watched as the door opened and paused only a few inches apart.

“James?” It was a soft whisper.

“Q?”

“May I come in?”

“Sure . . .” James’ hand moved away from the automatic and back out from under the pillow.

James watched as Q patted into the room. Closing the door behind him. He stepped closer to the bed and looked down at the prone man.

“I had another nightmare.”

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear you.”

“It wasn’t about Marcus this time. I was dreaming about you.” Q whispered.

“Me? You can’t believe I would intentionally harm you?” James sat up.

“No . . . it wasn’t like that.” Q shifted on his feet awkwardly. “I’m cold . . . could I . . . ?”

James pulled the covers back and moved over to the far side. Q slipped into the warm bed and laid down. James laid down too, but pushed over as far as he could to give the young no sense of intrusion. Bond rolled over onto to side to look at Q. The younger man slipped his hand under the covers and reached for James’; but instead of touching his hand, Q wrapped his long fingers around James’ wrist. The pads of his fingertips resting on the inside.

“It was a memory from three years ago.” Q started.

“The bombing?”

“No, before that. I had been working for ‘6’ for a few months. There was a mission going on and Tanner was having difficulty maintaining satellite surveillance. The Major told me to go and help establish and maintain connection.”

James could feel Q shift closer to him.

“It was Istanbul. You were the operative. M was telling you to retrieve the hard drive and I was working as fast as I could to get a visual of you.” Q paused. “I was in the room when M told Eve to shoot. I heard the shot, then . . . we heard Eve say ‘agent down’.” Q ducked his head and James could feel the man’s grip tighten around James’ wrist. James realized Q was checking the blonde’s pulse. Making sure his heart was still beating.

“I watched as M walked over to the window to watch the rain fall. No one said a word. No one could believe it. Everyone told me you were invincible, but then you weren’t.”

“I didn’t know you were there.” James whispered. He wanted to reach out and reassure the young man, but he didn’t dare. Q seemed too fragile at the moment to even be touched.

“James, I’m afraid.”

“Everyone is . . . it’s how we stay alive.”

“Sherlock told me something earlier tonight. Before we went to see Grandfather.”

“What did he say?” The urge to punch someone came quickly.

“He said I couldn’t trust you . . . that you are a serial adulterer but I knew that. It’s part your job. I also know that you have always be there for me.”

James suddenly wanted to punch the older Holmes in the face.

“What else did he say?”

“He said you were never to be trusted because you were a spy but to me, you have been . . . noble.”

Well that was a first. James sighed and rolled onto his back.

“I would never intentionally hurt you Q. I don’t know about noble. I can tell you honestly, my feelings for you aren’t exactly pure, but . . .”

James felt Q slide across the sheets and nestle against his arm.

“I just want to sleep here tonight. You make me feel safe.” Q whispered into the skin at James’ shoulder.

James had to clear his throat. A soft grunt as his mouth suddenly watered.

“Whatever you need Quartermaster.”

The two men laid quietly, listening to the sound of their breathing. After several minutes, Q lifted James’ arm and slipped it over his shoulder. Q rested his head in the crook of James’ shoulder as his hand slid out over James’ body. Resting lightly over the blonde’s heart. James didn’t move. He just let the young man adjust him the way he wanted to sleep.

A few minutes later, James heard the soft sound of Q snoring. His arm resting behind Q’s back tightened slightly pulling the man closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	16. Delightful Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Q wake up from the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow up date. I was at a Dressage show. More smut in the beginning of this chapter. Then speculation about who the killer is. Please enjoy.

Delightful Morning

Bond woke up to the sensation of a finger dragging across his skin. A thin forefinger outlining the contours of his pectoral muscles, then up his sternum. James was warm and he felt the body lying next to him. Moving slowly next to him. Skin against skin.

Slowly James opened his eyes. Q’s face was scrunched up as he concentrated on James’ body. His index finger circling around James areola. Q watched fascinated as the darker skin puckered and wrinkled.

James hummed and Q looked up in the man’s crystal blue eyes. Q’s cheeks instantly pinked. A light dusting of blush across his pale skin.

“Good morn’.” James slurred his words with sleep.

“Sorry.”

“For what? Waking me in a delightful way?”

James smiled as Q’s blush darkened. Q dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. It came away dark red and plump. James licked his own lips. He wanted to reach out and take hold of the young man. He wanted to pull Q closer. Feel the young man melt into him and become one; but knew he couldn’t. James kept his hands still and his body relaxed.

“You have a beautiful body.” Q said in hush tones. “It is very . . . captivating.”

James hummed. “Please, indulge.”

Q paused for a moment, staring into the blue fire in James’ eyes. Q moved closer and dragged his fingers over up James right arm and over his shoulder. His eyes flicked over to the scar of James’ gunshot wound.

“Does it hurt?” He traced an outline around the discolored skin.

“Not really, just tender.”

Q leaned forward and dragged his tip of his nose over the marred skin. James closed his eyes and forced himself to remain still. Then Q licked at the scar. The warm moist sensation of Q’s tongue on his skin was sweet agony. Q trailed kisses and licks down James’ collar bond, nipping at the notch of his throat. Pulling back, Q paused and looked again up into James’ face. He saw the control and determination of the man. Q pushed up and slipped his lips over James’. Pushing the blonde on to his back, Q moved over to straddle the man’s body. James let Q push him down, feeling the contact and enjoying the weight of the younger man on top of him. Q took James’ hands, interlaced their fingers and pinned them to the mattress above James’ head.

It would just take a simple twist of his hips . . . a push with his torso . . . and Bond could have Q underneath him. He could take control and take the young man, but Bond didn’t dare. He let Q guide them. Letting the young man decide how much and how far.

James felt Q’s tongue slide against the seam of his lips. The older man moaned and opened his mouth. He was rewarded with the slide of Q’s tongue against his. Q wiggled his hips, and James could feel the swell of Q’s swollen cock, rubbing against his body. His own cock coming to complete attention.

James focused all of his mental capacity to remain still. Kissing when Q passed near enough and moaning as the young man’s talented tongue found the sensitive skin on James’ neck.

Q pulled back again. His hands locked with James’, held tight to the bed. Q was panting. His jade green eyes black and heavily lidded.

“James . . . will you take me in your mouth?” The words came out breathy-needy.

“Yes.”

Immediately, Q released James’ hands and he stood, pulling his t-shirt off. He stood on the bed, his feet on either side of James’ hips. Carefully he pulled his sleep pants down, kicking them off. James looked up to see Q towering above him. His pale skin slick with sweat; his slim cock pulled away from his body. Q had the thin, trim body of a long distant runner. His flat abdomen slipping down to narrow hips. Like a statue of Hermes, or the image of Ariel from the Tempest. All he needed were wings. A fallen angel.

James wanted . . . he wanted to touch . . . to hold . . . to taste . . . Every cell in his body wanted. But not yet. He needed to wait . . . he needed to let Q decide when. James slipped his hands under the edge of the headboard and grabbed it tight.

Q knelt down. His knees rested on either side of James’ chest. Q’s slim cock bounced slightly on James’ chest. The dark haired man caressed James’ lips with his thumb, as he looked into James’ eyes. The blonde’s tongue came out and lightly licked at him. Then Q leaned up on his knees as James craned his neck to take the head of Q’s cock into his mouth.

Q tipped his head back, as the heat and pressure of James’ mouth surround the gland. He reached out and grabbed the top of the headboard to steady himself. James’s tongue swirled around the head and lapped at the slit. Q groaned and moved forward, letting the length slip deeper into James’ mouth. The tongue searching out every contour and vein, tracing along the length with its pointed tip. The pull of suction and just the right amount of teeth.

Q had never experienced anything like this before. His knuckles were white from his grip on the head board. He could feel James pulling him deeper and deeper into his mouth. Hungry for more of the young boffin. Q slipped his hands free and grabbed James’ forearms. Pulling them from the headboard, Q set James’ hands on his slim hips. Letting the older man guide him.

James groaned when his fingertips made contact to Q’s heated skin. The vibration shooting up Q’s cock and throughout his body. He looked down into James’ eyes, no longer blue but black with lust. He felt James pull him forward. The head of the cock slipping deep into James’ throat. The constriction of muscles around his length as James swallowed him. James’ nose buried deep in the dark musky curls of Q’s groin.

“James . . .” Q moaned. His hands returned to the head board to steady himself as James pulled and pushed him. His cock sliding in and out of the man’s mouth. The pressure and pleasure of it.

Q’s body was quivering with expectation. The sensation of a sudden burst of flame burning rapidly across every nerve ending in his body. The control and dominance James had given the young man. The sensuality of touch.

Q let his hand slip free from the headboard and drag through the blonde’s short hair. The straw colored strands bristling through his fingers. James looked up at Q, his cheeks convex from sucking. A flush under the tan.

“James . . . please.”

At that moment Q lost control and snapped his hips forward. James’ head as pushed back into the pillow and Q buried himself into the man’s throat. Instead of complaining, James moaned deeply again, sending Q’s body into sensory overload. His fingers tightened in the man’s hair. Pulling on the short stands he could hold. Q snapped is hips one more time, feeling the man beneath him twist and hold him tight.

“James . . . please . . . I want to come in your mouth . . .”

James fingers squeezed tighter on the pale hips and pulled Q deep again. James nose was rubbing against Q’s skin. The scent of musk clinging to James’ chin.

Q came with a silent cry. His body pulsating with each heartbeat. James’ hands moved up the young man’s body. Holding his torso as James swallowed again and again around the man’s twitching cock.

Q let go of the headboard and bent his body in half. Removing his spent length and replacing it with is lips. Q kissed James’ forehead, then each eyelid. He kissed into James’ mouth and for the first time in his life he tasted his own release.

James’ hand still were resting on Q’s ribs, but he had lessened his hold. Just lightly touching the quivering body as Q kissed him over and over again. Slowly, Q slipped off to the side of James; the blonde’s hand moving away from the boy’s body.

Q ducked his face and asked. “How do you want to come?”

Lust ricocheted through Bond’s body. He wanted it all. Everything. He wanted to know how it felt to have Q ride his cock. He wanted to know how it felt to lean over his body from behind and thrust wildly into the slim body. He wanted to trap Q beneath him and stare into those incredible green eyes and watch them as James entered his body. He wanted it all, but knew he could never take. It would have to be given by the young man.

“Your hand . . . wrap around me tight and start slow . . . build it up . . . tease me.”

Q looked up into James’ face. The blonde could see the relief and joy there. Q lunged forward and kissed James again. His young body wrapping around the older man.

Q struggled to get James’ pajama bottoms down. The fabric bunched just over his thighs. James’ cock was already swollen and leaking. A strand of precum clung from the slit, trailing down to his stomach.

James felt Q’s right hand wrap around the thick heavy cock. The fingers flexing individually up and down the staff before the first subtle pull. James’ eyes rolled back into his head, as Q’s callous thumb dragged over the slit.

“Oh . . . fuck, that’s perfect.” James moaned.

He could feel the smile on Q’s face as the young man kept kissing him. Licking up James’ neck as he started to pull faster. Another rhythmic flexing of his fingers and Bond broke out in a sweat. His control diminished and his hands pulled Q closer to him. His finger finally dragged through the inky curls. He could easily become addicted to the man’s hair, if Q allowed him too.

Q dragged his thumb across the head again, as he whispered. “If you ever bring back all of your equipment in pristine condition . . . I will let you bend me over my desk in Q Branch and fuck me in front of everyone.”

The image of such a moment. The boffin’s pale arse exposed and waiting for him. Bond in one of his expensive suits, his fly open and his cock out. The gasps and stunned expressions on the faces of the minions as Q orders James to fuck him. That posh voice begging.

James came with a groan. Deep and rumbling. He could feel Q beside him shiver from it. The young man’s hand covered in his warm release. Q slowed his movements then gentled them too. James wrapped an arm around Q’s body waiting for the man to pull away, but Q didn’t. James leaned forward and kissed the tip of Q’s nose. Then his mouth.

“Like I said . . . a delightful way to wake up.”

Q laughed. He wiped his hand on the sheets before he slapped James’ hip.

“God, how do you keep your lovers around with corny lines like that?”

James smiled at the idea of Q becoming his lover.

“Give me a chance to get my mind back on line and I will give you something a little more appropriate.”

“No, I think I like you like this . . . Sex befuddled.”

Q kissed James again.

“Whatever pleases you, Quartermaster. Whatever pleases, you.”

~Q~

When James and Q came downstairs, John and Sherlock were already in the kitchen. John was fixing a fry-up and Sherlock was sitting at the table looking through the newspapers Robert had brought over.

James sighed at the smell of the cooking bangers. His mouth began to water.

“Coffee?” Bond asked the room. “I know, tea for you, Q.”

“The kettle is just boiling.” John said without turning away from his work.

“Is there enough for two more?” Bond asked.

“Yea, I always make too much. And if yours is anything like mine, he won’t eat much.” John dropped two more sausages into the skillet.

Q sat down and stared across at his brother. The two men shared a moment of silent conversation. It was interrupted when James set a mug of tea down before Q. His hand came up and brushed lightly across Q’s back. Then James set a mug of coffee down in front of Sherlock. The detective look at it as if it was poisoned.

“Don’t worry, Watson told me how you liked it.” James winked at the man.

Sherlock noticed but waited till Bond stepped back to the counter before he spoke.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock ask, ignoring the need to brotherly comfort his younger sibling.

“I’m finally okay, I think. How about you?”

Sherlock glanced quickly at John’s back as the man worked at the hob. He looked back at his brother. “I think I may be okay too. Finally.”

John set two plates down on the table. One in front of each Holmes. Q and Sherlock looked down at the plates then said simultaneously, “Just toast, please.”

James and John broke out laughing.

“I told you.” John said elbowing the other blonde. He turned back to the counter and returned with two more plates piled high with food. “Eat, both of you.” John instructed.

James spread out cutlery between the four of them and then sat down next to Q.

“When will the archival books arrive?” James asked after taking a sip of coffee.

“Grandfather said around ten o’clock.” Q said as he pushed the beans on his plate around with his fork.

James tapped the plate with his own fork and glared at Q. The young man poked a portion of banger with his fork and dragged it through the beans. Pushing all of it into his mouth as he stared back at Bond. James smiled as Q glared.

“Why do you need those clippings, Sherlock?” James asked as he dipped his toast in the runny egg yolk.

“The murders are connected to Carlyle International. Every one of them took place where there was a facility. Even the murder in Overton . . . the small community was being looked at for a storage facility. I need to see if the same employee was at each locations during the time of the murders.” Sherlock said as he hesitantly tasted the coffee Bond had prepared for him.

It was perfect, but Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him. He wrinkled his nose and set the cup down briskly. Sighing dramatically. John rolled his eyes and set his knife and folk down. Pushing his chair back, he stood up and grabbed Sherlock’s cup.

“There is nothing wrong with this cup but I’ll fix you another.” John said. Sherlock smiled until he realized Bond and Q were smiling at him.

“You’re thinking of a specific employee aren’t you?” James asked as he finished off his eggs and toast.

“I can’t make correct deductions until I have all the information.”

“You suspect Marcus.” James’ blue eyes flashed with predatory instinct.

Q and John looked at Sherlock who remained silent for a moment.

“He would definitely fit into the profile of a serial killer.” Sherlock said as he took the freshly prepared cup of coffee. “The problem exists that he was dead when the last man was killed in York and had been dead a year when Hanna was murdered.”

“A copycat killer?” John asked. Sherlock hummed.

“The crimes where not greatly publicized. Copycats like to redo famous crimes. And the specifics of these crimes are too unique to be coincidence.” Sherlock said.

“What about a partner?” Q asked. “Someone whom continued after Marcus was dead. Maybe the partner killed Marcus?”

“Serial killers rarely work in partnership but it is not unheard of. There was Abel and Furlan in Italy, Chang-shin Liao and Chang-shan Husi in China, Bianchi and Buono in the States, and Fred and Rosemary West here in England. But a pair working together that long ago then stopping would be . . . unheard of. Even after Bianchi and Buono stopped killing women in California, Bianchi killed two more in another state. The others didn’t stop killing until they were caught.”

“The missing women!” Q gasped. Sherlock and John turned to look at the young man. “When we met with the photographer in Dover. He said there had been missing women . . . two dozen over the last fifteen years.”

“Serial killers rarely change victim profiles or methods of killing. It is a ritual.” Sherlock said.

“But if there was a partner who had been working with Marcus and then killed Marcus, maybe he had his own ritual and is now killing on his own.” James said.

“We don’t know if Marcus was the original killer. And my research shows cases going back twenty years ago. The torturing and murdering of young men lasted just over fifty-eight months. Not quite five years. Going by the average age of a serial killer - that would make the supposed partner in his mid to late fifties. Viable to still be killing but serial killers devolve, become more brazen. They don’t slow down. They don’t become more careful.”

“This is a waste of time. Just speculation. We don’t even know if Marcus was in the area of each killing. He may completely innocent of killing the men.” Q said somberly. Realization that if Q couldn’t find the killer, then his grandfather might not help protect the young man made Q’s stomach twist.

“Yes. We need to keep our minds open to other possibilities.” Sherlock agreed.

Q turned and looked at James. The blonde stared back.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find the man who killed your cousin and then we will get you back to London and safe inside MI6. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

Q smiled weakly and took James’ hand. Sherlock glared at the two men. Then John took his and squeezed it. Sherlock turned his attention to the doctor.

“Be happy for them, Sherlock.” John whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	17. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets the proof to find the serial killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware I have changed the rating on this story. I have decide the up coming chapters need to come with warnings. Torture scene as well as smut.

Proof

Carlyle International not only brought the archival books with every newspaper clipping mentioning the multinational company, they provide a copy of the minutes of every meeting, every proposal and every sheet of paper recording every the single property holding of the Archibald Carlyle.

Sherlock was scouring through the newspaper clippings. Q took the minutes of the meetings, making lists of every attendee and the location of the meeting. Together they started making charts comparing the locations of the various murders and the men and women whom where there at the times.

James and John picked up the destroyed notes and photos from before. John occasionally pausing to look at another torn photographs.

“Stover, the photographer, sent along another set of photos he took that day at the parade.” James said as John studied a photograph of a street scene.

John glanced up at James. “Did he send the copies of the missing women?”

“Do you really think they have anything to do with this?”

“I don’t know . . . it’s just in case Sherlock wants them.” John said as he set the torn photograph in a pile with other damaged evidence.

It took hours for the men to get through the reams of papers and photos. Sherlock had found another murder in Ireland and two in Wales. These three new murders added hours to their search. Q had started pinning photos to the walls again. Eight photos of the dead men with lists of names and dates and locations. There were photos of crime scenes and Carlyle facilities under the photo of each dead man. It became a ghoulish montage of smiling faces and mutilated bodies.

The men were mentally exhausted when the sun set and Robert brought a warm meal for them. Sherlock refused to stop but James was able to pull Q away from the search. John had arranged plates and cutlery around the table as the men sat down.

“Will he stop?” Q asked glancing over at his brother.

“Not until he has solved.” John said, his eyes also fixed on the dark haired detective. “Ford . . . Q, I need you to speak to him.”

Q turned and looked over at the John. “About what?”

“He’s carrying around guilt right now and it is . . . causing him to make bad decisions. I’m afraid what he will do if we can’t find out who killed your uncle and cousin.”

“Bad decisions? Like what?” Q asked studying the doctor’s face.

“When you disappeared fifteen years ago, apparently Sherlock turned to a dangerous lifestyle. When you returned he went back to it for one night. He feels very guilty.”

“He should.” James growled.

Q reached over and rested his hand on James’ forearm.

“I’m sorry, John, that Sherlock is upset but there is really nothing I can do to change that. We weren’t very close as children and I was surprised to learn it even really bothered him and Mycroft that I was gone.” Q’s frankness shocked John.

“Sherlock is not a robot. He has feelings . . . he cares about people.” Defended John.

“He left his younger brother with a pedophile.” James said coldly.

“He was a teenager himself. He didn’t understand the consequences to his actions back then.” A hard edge came to John’s voice.

“Q had to flee for his life when he was fourteen and had no one to turn to. Not a father . . . not a brother. I know what it like to be an orphan but at least I had people willing to take me in. He had family that didn’t even care where he was.” James set his fork down hard on the table.

John glared at the other blonde. “Sherlock told me, his debt to Ford had been paid. A life for a life. He nearly died on the streets from the drugs. He fights every day to stay clean. Ford is not the only one who carry’s scars that can’t be seen. He’s not the only one who lives with the wounds from the past.” John leveled a lethal glare at the spy. Q was glancing back and forth between the two men when they heard Sherlock.

“John? . . . It really doesn’t matter now, John. I believe I know who the killer is.”

The sound of chairs scrapping across wooden floors was loud as all three men quickly stood and rushed into the other room. Sherlock was standing in front of the wall with the eight pictures of the victims.

“We were correct in believing Marcus was the serial killer.” Sherlock said without any preamble. “He was in Ireland at the time of both murders. Sighting out new locations for manufacturing plants for electronics.”

Sherlock pointed to the two men from Wexford. He moved down to the picture of the men in Wales.

“Marcus had been involved in a merger meeting the day before the first man was killed in Wales and was in contract negotiations with union representatives during the second murder in Cardiff.” Sherlock pointed at the two photographs. “He was involved in rejecting Overton when Christopher Liddle was killed and he was at a board meeting held in York when Matthew Horn was murdered and dumped in the carpark.”

“But Joshua Blake? Blake was murdered two months after Marcus was killed. And who killed Marcus and Hanna?” James said refuting Sherlock’s deduction that Marcus was the serial killer.

“Look at this photo from the board meeting two years earlier. Look who is sitting at the table with Marcus.”

Sherlock pointed at a newspaper article that was pinned to the wall under the list of names. There sitting next to Marcus was Michael Carlyle. Marcus son. The young red headed man was in his early twenties. He was clean shaven and wearing his school jacket and striped tie.

Q quickly looked back up at the list of names in the minutes of the meeting.

“He is not listed.”

“No, but he was obviously there. He was not on the board yet, but he was traveling with his father for these meetings. If he was in York seventeen years ago, he could have been at some of the other places that took Marcus in the vicinity of the murders.”

“Michael?” James whispered. “Could he kill his father and sister?”

“He was home from school when Hanna died, but not when Marcus did.” Q quickly was looking through notes on the location of every family member at the time of Marcus’ death.

“But why?” John asked. “Why would he be the partner? He was only fifteen in this photo.”

“Like father like son.” Sherlock said shrugging his shoulder. “His father introduced him to the thrill of the game. Torturing young men and murdering them. Michael continued on once without him but didn’t enjoy it as much. He moved on to women.”

“Oh my God . . . the twenty-four women . . . Michael killed them too?” John whispered.

“Quite possible. We need to interview him immediately before he realize we know.” Sherlock reached for his jacket. “We can go see him now.”

“He’s not here.” Q said. “He’s in Dover. He has a gallery opening tonight and he was getting ready.”

“Do you know which gallery?” Sherlock asked.

“The . . . Price-Hall Gallery. Downtown.”

Sherlock glanced at John. John nodded and went to put on his coat.

“You’re not going without me!” Q shouted.

“NO!” James reached over and wrapped his arm around Q’s waist and pulled him back. “It isn’t safe. You need to stay here.”

“Bond, he is not an international terrorist, he is a painter. I hardly think . . .”

“That maybe the problem, Q. You are not thinking. This man may have killed your cousin, his sister. He may be responsible for the death of dozens of people. You are not rushing off and get yourself killed. Remember we are trying to get you back to MI6 alive.” James didn’t release Q as he was speaking to him. “We need you there. I need you there . . . in one piece.”

Sherlock sighed. “It is perfectly fine. You and your assassin should stay here. John and I know how to deal with killers. We’ve done it before.”

“I believe I’ve probably handled more killers than you have, Holmes.” Bond sneered at the detective. “Q will remain here and I will go with you and Watson.”

James stepped away from Q and went to grab his coat. Q narrowed his eyes and glared at the three men.

“Bond, I need to speak to you in private.” Q said in clear authoritative Quartermaster voice.

James instantly stopped moving. His shoulders straightened as he stared at the young man. Sherlock and John were shocked by the sudden change in the air of the room.

“Wait here.” Bond said as he took swift steps to Q. He grabbed the young man by the elbow and pulled him from the room.

They turned around the corner and into the hallway. Bond stopped and glared at Q.

“Don’t be giving me the Quartermaster now, Q. This is your life.”

“Exactly, and who else would be better at determining what is best for me. Besides, you are under orders from M. I have to go with you. Remember, I’m your prisoner. You can’t leave me alone unguarded.”

“Q!”

“007, you have a duty to protect your quartermaster while insuring he doesn’t escape. The best way for you to do your duty is to have me with you at all times.” Q said calmly. Bond could imagine M using the exact same words.

“Does that also include sleeping and bathing?” James snapped back.

A subtle little smile slipped precariously over Q’s face. “I was hoping you would recommend something along those lines.”

The sudden desire for the man surged back to life inside the agent. Q moved forward and slipped into James’ personal space.

“If we work together, the soon we can end this search and return to here.” Q whispered into James’ lips.

“Are you using sex to manipulate me, Quartermaster?” James voice was deep rumble. He was surprised by Q’s actions

“Maybe . . .”

He leaned forward and Q quickly pulled him closer. Slipping his lips together with James. Their bodies slotting together perfectly. James twisted them and pushed Q’s back against the wall. The instant Q was trapped by James, the blonde felt Q tense. His body becoming stiff. James didn’t want the contact to end but he didn’t want Q to reject him either. Bond rolled his body to the side, pulling Q with him. James’ back was now against the wall and Q was pulled tight to his chest. He felt Q relax again and push forward, taking control. James lightly rested his hands on Q’s hips and let the younger man’s hands wander across his shoulders and through his hair.

“How did you get so good at it so quickly?”

“I’ve listened to you on the comms for three years now. I learned from the very best.” Q nipped at James’ jaw line. The blonde tipped his head back and exposed his neck to the younger man’s mouth.

James moaned softly as he felt teeth lightly graze across the strap muscles of his neck. Q swiveled his hips and James felt the needed pressure on his more than interested cock. James’ hands came up and one cupped Q’s cheek while the other wrapped carefully around the back of Q’s neck. Holding and guiding the young man’s mouth to his. It was a passionate kiss with promise and assurances.

“You don’t fight fair, Quartermaster.” James leaned his forehead to rest against Q’s.

“I’m fighting for my life, James. I can’t fight fair . . . but I can win if you stay on my side.”

James stared into the warm jade green eyes. How much he wanted to see in those eyes. How much he wanted to show things to them.

“You will stay right behind me. No arguments. And when I tell you to get down . . . you will get down and stay down. I’m already going in with one civilian, your brother, I can’t risk mistake with two of you.”

“I’m not a civilian, James. I’m just as dangerous as you. More so than Doctor Watson.”

“Well, at least John knows what it is like to get shot at. He’ll duck. You . . . I don’t know about.”

“You put too much faith in Michael’s intelligence. He is a painter not a criminal master mind.” Q whispered.

“He is a possible serial killer. And you are not a field agent.” James smiled as he slipped in for another kiss.

“I remember telling you once that I am more dangerous than you.” Q cocked his head to the side.

“Yes . . . something about your pajamas.” James smiled and returned to kissing the young man.

“Let me show you how dangerous.”

~Q~

Bond had agreed for Q come with him and the other two men, but he didn’t like it. He and John sat in the front seat while the two Holmes brothers sat silently on the back seat. Bond glanced over as he watched John check his weapon. John ejected the magazine and checked the number of rounds then he slipped it back into the grip. Then he slid the action back, inserting a round in the chamber. He clicked the safety on and retuned the gun to holster at the small of his back.

John’s eyes flicked over at James. The two blondes nodded slightly at each other, then returned their stares out the front windscreen and the black ribbon of road. With Bond driving, they reached the outskirts of Dover quickly. Q gave him the address and directions to the gallery, checking with his mobile occasionally. They pulled in front of the art gallery as the last of the guests from the showing were leaving.

The four men entered the trendy art gallery and stood by the door as Michael finished speaking to three guest. The red headed man glanced up at Sherlock and Q. The expression on his face soured. The guest glanced over and saw the men. Michael walked slowly over to them.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of fine art?” Michael sneered at Sherlock and Q. His breath was sour with alcohol and cigarettes.

Sherlock’s hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his great black coat. He glanced around the small gallery at the selection of paintings on the walls.

“Fine art yes . . . this collection of self-indulgent muck, no.”

Michael’s face flushed red as he clinched his fists. “What are you doing here?!” Michael shouted.

The three remaining guests quickly left the gallery, leaving Michael alone with the Holmes and James and John.

“We are on the trail of a serial killer.” Q said.

“Oh? I thought your self-important arse of a brother was the detective. You’re the writer’s fuck buddy.” Michael growled at Q. Bond wanted to break the man’s nose.

“We know Michael.” Q said ignoring the comment.

Michael stared at the young man for a moment, then turned away from the four men. He walked over to the bar set up in the center of the gallery. He poured himself another bourbon and lit another cigarette.

“What do you think you know?” Michael said, his back to the four men.

James looked quickly at John, then the two men moved in opposite directions, circling slowly around the drunk.

“We know about your father and the men.” Q said.

“We know about the three men in the north. We know about the two men in Ireland and the two men Wales. We know about Peter Wilson.” Sherlock said as he watched sweat break out over Michael’s forehead. “It was like a drug to him. The thrill of the torture. The screams and pain he inflicted. He enjoyed himself. He enjoyed harming. Defiling.”

Sherlock started walking around the man so there would be someone to each side of Michael.

“We know he didn’t always work alone. We know he introduced his addiction to someone else. We know that person is continuing the work.” Sherlock paused and glanced at John. “We know everything there is to know about your father. Sadist, rapist, murder.”

Michael spun around and glared at Sherlock. “You know nothing about my father. All you know is what your bastard father told you. My father was a good man. He was twice the man, Signer Carlyle was.”

“His name was Signer Holmes. He did not want to be linked to Carlyle.” Sherlock corrected Michael.

“Didn’t want . . . he had no problem wanting the money and the power.” Michael spat back at Sherlock. “He had no problem in fucking any woman he wanted.”

“Including your mother.” Sherlock said.

“My mother was a whore . . .” Michael’s words were beginning to slur. He took another drink. “Grandfather should have let her throw herself on that fire. Get rid of her just like . . .”

Michael stopped. He swayed slightly and reached out to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.

“Just like who? Hanna?” Sherlock asked.

“Hanna was a witch.”

“She was fifteen.” Sherlock said.

“She was evil . . . she deserved to die . . . it was right she die.” Michael blinked back the memories.

He swayed again. Dropping the tumble, the glass shattered on the concrete floor. The brown liquid splashed up his trousers.

“She was just a young girl.” Q pleaded. “How could you kill her?”

“She murdered my father! She deserved to die! She was a witch!”

“And you burned her at the stake.” Sherlock said somberly.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! And I would do it again!” Michael shouted.

“And like every woman burned at the stake before as a witch, Hanna was innocent too.”

Michael looked up confused. He narrowed his eyes to try and focus on Sherlock.

“What? . . .”

“Hanna was not responsible for Marcus’ death.” Sherlock said.

“You don’t know that! . . . You can’t know that for certain!”

“I do . . .”

Michael grabbed one of the bottles of alcohol and swung in a large arch, forcing James and John to duck. He let the bottle slip from his grasp and careen towards Sherlock. The tall detective was expecting the move and simple stepped back and out of the way of the glass projectile. Michael then quickly turned and rushed towards Q. He pushed the young man out of his way. James had rushed forward but was reaching for Q instead of stopping Michael.

The red-headed man rushed from the gallery and out into the street. James glanced briefly at Q. When the young man shouted.

“I’m fine! Get him!”

Bond and John were off, pursuing the young man out into the night. Somehow, Michael had made it to his car quickly and was in behind the wheel and starting in it up. He revved the engine then pulled out into the street.

Bond saw him coming and duck his shoulder as the car turned into him. The blonde rolled across the bonnet of the car and Bond landed firmly on his feet on the opposite side. Michael gunned the accelerator, the wheels squealed in complaint.

Bond brought his gun out and fired. The .380 making a cracking noise over the sound of car engine and spinning tires. The front tire of the car exploded. It sounded like a shotgun blast. Louder than the automatic in James’ hand. The car veered to the right, then to the left as Michael over corrected. The wheel rim sparked across the tarmac, sending flashes of light up midnight darkness.

The rim dug down into the road and then there was a loud pop. The left rear tire lifted off the road and the whole car rolled over. Right to left. There were sparks and sound of breaking glass and crushing metal.

John and James ran down the tarmac to the accident. The car resting on its right side, and trapping Michael inside the vehicle. The smell of petroleum suddenly made John and James stop running. They saw the small flame then the bright flash. Both men grabbed at each other as they ducked. The blast wave of heat swept over them as the explosion lit up the night sky.

Sherlock and Q came running up to the other two men. Their silhouettes against the yellow white fire of Michael’s car. In the distance they could hear sirens approaching, but it was too late. There would be no way to save the man in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	18. Cousins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Q make a terrible mistake.

“We need to tell Grandfather.” Q sounded very distant as the men returned to the house.

They had returned from the accident that had taken Michael Carlyle’s life. They smelled of smoke and sweat. John and James collapsed on the couch, exhausted having been in a fight and then questioned by police for two hours.

Sherlock stood and stared out the window into the blackness. His thoughts carrying him deep into his past. Q wandered around the room, looking at the pictures he had pinned to the walls. He dragged his fingers across a photo of the whole family. Archibald and Signer’s mother. Garrison Carlyle, his wife and three children. Marcus, Dagmar, Michael and Hanna. The five Holmes. All of them together. Q was sitting on the ground his legs crossed. Hanna was sitting next to him. Her legs politely folded underneath herself.

“We need to tell Grandfather.” Q repeated.

“It is late . . . he is asleep.” Sherlock said not turning around to face the men.

Q’s eyes fell on Norman’s face in the picture. A sharp pain slipped between Q’s ribs.

“Norman . . .”

Sherlock turned and looked at his brother. “What about him?”

“He needs to know . . . he was Michael’s . . . they were close. We should let him know before he finds out from the press. I’m sure the estate will be swarming with reporters tomorrow.”

“You mean today.” John said. He tipped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “It must be after three in the morning.”

Q glanced at the men sitting on the couch. James was already dosing softly and John looked like he would soon be following him.

“We need to go see him now, Sherlock.” Q looked back at his brother. “It’s not right for him to hear about Michael from strangers.”

“Ford, we are strangers to this family. Neither one of us had much to do with it once we left.” Sherlock glanced out the window again. “But you are correct. John would say it was ‘not good’ if we don’t tell him before he is besieged by the press. Let’s go.”

“What about them?” Q asked nodding to the two blondes on the couch.

“Let them sleep. We will be on the estate and it only a short walk to Norman’s house.”

The night air was cold and the two could see their breath as they walked the quarter mile to Norman’s house. They were surprised to see the lights on. Even at a distance, they could hear music coming from the house.

Q knocked on the door. No one answered. The music was loud. Something by Mozart. Long and melodious. Q knocked harder. His knuckles hurting as he hammered hard against the maple door.

They heard a muffled exclamation from within just before the door swung open.

“Michael . . . you bastard.” Norman said then stopped before continuing the insult. Confused he glanced between the two men, then smiled and held his hand out to the older Holmes. “Sherlock! What the devil are you doing here? Come in . . . come in! Please! . . . Michael should be home any moment now. He was opening an exhibition in Dover tonight. He will more than likely be drunk, but he still insists on driving himself.”

Norman turned and led the two men into his home. Sherlock and Q paused to look at each other before following the man into the bright lights and loud music. It was a long passage of strings repeating a reframe, the melody moving from violins to cellos, to basses then back again. Rhythmic and mournful.

Norman led the two men to the large room that looked out over the cliffs and the sea. The night still black and windows more like ebony mirrors than views to the world outside. Sherlock glanced around the room. It was warm and pleasant. Light colors and pale maple accents.

Norman turned the music down, apologizing again for Michael’s absence.

“Wine?” He asked. “I have a lovely French burgundy.”

“Please.” Q said without thinking. “We need to talk to you about Michael.”

Norman smiled as he poured the dark wine into two stemless round bulbs of glass. He held one out to Q who took it and quickly took a sip.

“What about Michael? Oh . . . I know his side of the family and yours has never gotten along, but if he has threatened you, ignore it. He means no harm.” He held a glass out to Sherlock. The dark haired man took it and turned away from Norman, directing his attention back to the bookcase. Sherlock dragged his finger down the spines of the books then pause at one title.

“No, Norman . . . nothing like that. It’s . . .” Q glanced at his brother and realized Sherlock was not going to assist in telling their cousin that his lover was dead. Q took another deep drink of wine. “Norman, Michael had an accident.”

Norman glanced back and forth between the two men. “No, I would have been called . . . wait, for real . . . is he hurt? Where is he? How do you know?”

“We were there, Norman. We saw the car accident . . . he is dead. I’m sorry.”

Norman fell to the couch and Q quickly sat down beside him. Q wrapped his arm around his cousin and leaned in close.

“I’ve told him not to drive when he is drinking . . . he just wouldn’t listen to me. Why did he have to be so stupid?!”

Q felt dizzy. He reached to set his glass on the edge of the table in front of him, but missed. The glass fell to the floor and shattered. The blood red wine spilled out across the pale wood floor. Q slumped to right and into Norman. The auburn haired man just simple pushed Q off himself and stood.

Sherlock didn’t even look surprised when Norman stood up and pointed the weapon at him. Sherlock looked down at the wine glass in his hand and sniffed at it.

“Barbiturates?”

“Well, you are the expert on drug abuse in the family.” Norman said. “Don’t worry not enough to kill him.”

“No, you have other plans, don’t you?” Sherlock pulled the book off the shelf and held it up for Norman to see. “The Art of the Medieval Torture Chamber. The same book Hanna had recorded three murders in. Is it yours or . . .” He flipped open the pages till he found the chapter on Trial by Water. Peter Wilson’s name was written there in Hanna’s handwriting. “No, this is her book. You took it from Q and Bond when you ransack the house. You should have disposed of it. It will be your undoing.”

“No, Sherlock, it will be yours.”

Norman didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger. The Taser fired. The two prongs dug deep into Sherlock’s chest. The thin metal wires sent the electric volts surging through Sherlock’s body. Every muscle in the man’s body seized and froze. The pain was excruciating as he fell backwards. Unable to break his fall, Sherlock hit the wooden floor hard. His head cracking against the hard wood. A moment of pain and burning then blackness swept over the man.

~Q~

When Sherlock and Q left, John and James were sleeping. They closed the door softly, but it was still enough to wake Bond up. He glanced around the room, then nudged John.

“Watson, wake up. Where is Sherlock and Q?” James got to feet and started looking around the house.

John glanced around as he sucked in a deep breath. He stretched and groaned as a muscle twinges in pain in his shoulder.

“I thought they were talking about telling their grandfather. They must have gone next door to speak to the old man.” John stood up and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back. “Tea?”

“I’d rather have scotch, but tea is fine.” James said and collapsed again in one of the overstuffed chairs.

John went into the kitchen and started the kettle. He took two mugs down from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

“So, are you going back to London now? John asked loudly.

Bond’s eyes had just slipped closed when John asked. They flew open as he jolted back awake.

“Yes, probably. I think we have Mycroft neutralized and the identity of the killer is known. We just have to hope the old man will keep his promise to help Q.”

James stood up and looked around the room at the various pictures and maps. It had been a lot of detecting work done in very few days. It was similar, but still, very different from what he did for MI6. He wondered briefly if it was a career he could move into after he retired from SIS. If he lived that long. He wondered if it was something he could do with Q. A new life for both of them. Maybe he could convince Q to leave the service now and the two of them to could start fresh together.

James stopped and looked up at the wall of photos. He shook his head. Where had all those thoughts come from? When did he start planning a life that included the bespectacled Quartermaster? His stomach felt queasy like he was jumping out of an airplane again without a parachute.

“Tea?” John was standing next to him, holding out a steaming cup.

Bond took it and quickly took a deep drink. He need to clear his mind. He needed sleep and he needed to quit thinking about a future with Q. The young man didn’t need to be burdened with a broken down assassin.

“Are these the pictures the photographer sent you?” John was looking through the pile of reprints.

“Yes, we never got a chance to compare them with family members.” James took another sip of tea.

John flipped through the photos, pausing at one of them. He pulled it out and looked at the picture closely.

“Is this Michael?” John pointed to a young man in a dark blazer. There was an emblem over the breast pocket.

James looked at the picture. The man was auburn hair with hollow cheeks and dark eyes.

“I don’t . . . here.”

He reached for the photo of the entire family. The one Q had been looking at earlier. He looked at the image of Michael in the group photo then back at the photo from the parade. They were both wearing the same blazer but it was two different young men. James quickly looked at the other faces in the crowd.

“No, look it is Norman.” Bond pointed to a younger Norman Carlyle.

“I guess Norman and Michael went to the same school.” John commented.

James looked at the photo from the parade and at the family photo again. Something was wrong. Something in the back of his head. James put his mug of tea down and went over to the table with the newspaper clippings. He flipped through the pages of the book until he came to a photo of the board meeting in York that Michael had been at.

Michael Carlyle was sitting at the far end of long banquet table. He was at the very edge of the photo. Beside him, just out of frame was another person. The man’s left arm and half of his torso could be seen. His head was turned away and the camera did not catch his face. But he had the same shade of hair as Michael. Auburn. The blazer the man was wearing had the emblem on the breast pocket as Michael.

“It can’t be.” James whispered.

“What can’t?”

James thought back to the night he and Q had dinner with Michael and Norman. Norman Carlyle said his father had started grooming him early to take over the business. Norman had been included in the meetings and executive decisions from an early age.

“The likelihood of an uncle and nephew serial killer team as that of a father and son serial killer team.” James said as he pointed to the man sitting just outside of frame.

“Turning into serial killers who are cousins.” John quickly piecing together what James was coming to.

“You go get Sherlock and Q from the house. I’m going after Norman. If he is innocent then it can easily be proved. If he is involved . . . I don’t want Q around him.”

John nodded and the two men went running from the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You couldn't believe I would make it simple and give you the killer so quickly. Next chapter though there is a torture scene. Know your triggers and respect them.


	19. Drawn and Quartered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q wakes up in Norman's torture chamber.

Drawn and Quartered

It took Q a ridiculously long time to wake up completely. He could sense he was waking but he couldn’t seem to move. His arms hurt and he was cold. He heard a guttural groan. Someone was in pain. For a moment he wondered if he was the one who was groaning.

He tried to move his arms. They were stretched above his head. They wouldn’t move. The muscles in his shoulders were in agony.

“Oh, look Sherlock, your brother is joining us.”

Q heard his cousin’s mocking voice. Then a sharp scream. Q’s eyes suddenly opened. The lights shining at his face were bright. He didn’t have his glasses on and he couldn’t be sure who was in the room with him.

“When I get out of here, Norman, you will discover what real pain is.”

Q blinked his eyes, searching for his brother. He could hear Sherlock’s deep voice threating Norman, but he couldn’t see the man standing anywhere nearby. He blinked again and could make out the shadow of his cousin standing in front of him; just beyond the corona of the light. He was standing next to a large dog kennel. Norman was holding a long white rod in his hand. He smiled before he pushed the end of the rod through the bars of the kennel. Q heard a buzzing sound then Sherlock screamed again. The smell of burning flesh and ozone sharpened Q’s sense. He glanced down to see his brother kneeling inside the kennel. His knees were folded underneath his body and his elbows were resting on the ground. The white rod was some kind of electric prod that Norman was using on the helpless Sherlock. Electrocuting him over and over again. His flesh beginning to burn from the electric shocks.

“STOP IT!” Q shouted.

He struggled in his bonds.

“Good, you awake enough for us to begin.” Norman pulled the rod out of the kennel and stepped into the light where Q could see him better. “I was going to leave . . . not even say goodbye. You see, I saw the report of Michael’s accident on the telly tonight, before you even returned home. Evening news. I was already to escape. Leave in my boat that is docked at the base of the cliffs. Then the two of you arrive. Imagine my surprise . . . The two people responsible for taking my pet away from me. You know he was a wonder. He was so obedient. He would do anything I asked him. His father trained him well.”

“It was both of you . . .” Q said, keeping his eyes fixed on his cousin.

Q was finally conscious enough to realize what was going on. His wrists and ankles were shackled. His hands were pulled taut above his head. His ankles were attached to rings set into the concrete floor. Q was also naked. Without his glasses, his vision was impaired, but the bright light shining in his eyes made it even worse. The light was almost painful for his eyes to stare at.

“Where are we?” Q asked.

“In the basement of my house. My play room.” Norman waved over at the kennel Sherlock was confined in. “Would you believe the night you and James were here for dinner, there was a lovely twenty-two year old in that cage. I think her name was Rebecca.” Norman smiled at Q.

Q shivered in his restraints.

“You had the chance to escape . . . why didn’t you take it? Why did you bring us down here?”

Norman stepped closer and dragged his fingertips down Q’s abdomen.

“I was going to leave, but you gave me a wonderful opportunity I couldn’t pass by.”

“What are you going to do?” Q asked again, fearing the answer.

“Marcus loved his little boys. He loved how they sounded when they begged him to stop . . . the screams they would make. I only helped him with two you know . . . boys are not my thing.”

“You were sleeping with Michael.” Q said plainly. He thought if he could just keep Norman talking then maybe he could figure how to escape.

Norman brought his hand up and slapped Q hard across the face. A starburst of light flashing across Q’s vision.

“I wasn’t sleeping with that pathetic little worm. He was my slave. I fucked him with my toys . . . whenever and how ever I liked.” The shift in Norman’s voice went from mocking to cruelty. “He hated when I didn’t have a female down here to play with and I took my frustration out on him. I have a dildo that is twenty-four inches long . . . two feet. He had stuck up him for three whole days once. He could barely walk afterwards. Made him suck my cock while he fucked himself on it.”

Q could see the insanity in the man’s eyes. He tried to pull away from Norman, but the restrains held him in place.

“He found the women for you.” Sherlock said from the kennel.

“Yes, he was very good at that.” Norman turned back and looked down at Sherlock. “Imagine my surprise when I found out how much I enjoyed torturing women instead of men.”

“You discovered that when you killed Hanna.” Sherlock said coldly.

Norman smiled. “Two days. We kept her locked up in one of the outbuildings where no one would think to look. She was my first female. She begged but didn’t cry . . . apparently Marcus had ruined her already. Oh . . . but when we set her on fire . . . oh the sounds she made . . .”

Q was going to be sick. He twisted hard in the restraints pulling and trying to kick himself free.

“She was the only one whose body you let authorities find.” Sherlock said.

“She was our first female like I said. Marcus . . . he was messy. Leaving bodies all over the country side. He was going to get caught. He was foolish. So when I took over . . . when I became Michael’s new owner, I decide to be smarter. No one will find my little secrets. They are all out there.” Norman pointed to the south.

“You took their bodies out on your boat and dumped in the ocean.”

“Yes, very efficient, don’t you think.” Norman turned back to Q. “We tried different forms of torture on the women. My favorite was using a cudgel to break every bone in the bitch’s body. You should hear how they beg and scream for mercy.”

Norman stepped away from Q. The frightened man watched as Norman stepped over to a wall with various whips, knifes and clubs were displayed. He took down a heavy wooden bat. Holding in one hand, he slapped the wood into the other hand. The sound was loud and flat. The grain of the wood tight and heavy.

“Do you know that it was customary for the witch . . . or warlock, to be shown the devices of their torture beforehand? To add to the tension. Intensify the experience.” Norman walked over and tapped the wooden bat lightly to Q’s exposed ribs.

Q closed his eyes and prepared himself for the assault. It would painful and he had limited training for dealing with torture.

“Oh, don’t worry cousin . . . I have something special planned for you. I’ve only ever tried once before and unfortunately . . . well, to be honest, I made a small miscalculation.” He turned and returned the bat to the wall. He walked back over with a long length of hemp rope. “Drawn and Quartered. Ever hear of it. Marvelous form of torture. It was used as a public spectacle. It used to start when the condemned was drawn across the ground by a horse for miles until they reached the place of execution. Then the warlock was stung up and hung. Sometimes they also stretched him. Till he was almost dead, but not completely. Then they would cut off his genitals and disembowel him. Excruciating painful having your insides ripped out.”

Norman returned to stand in front of Q. He slipped the rope around the young man’s neck and tightened the slipknot. Q’s heart began to raise.

“I made a mistake the first time I tried to do the stretching part. The winch I used was too powerful. It ripped the poor girl’s arms right out of her. Snapped the bones like twigs.” He pulled a step stool close to Q and stood on it. “So instead of the winch, which I use to move the dead bodies around with before I cut them up into manageable pieces, I found this wonderful little device.” Q looked over his head and saw the cable tightener. “It’s actually called a ‘Come-along-winch’ believe it or not.”

Norman started to crank the leaver and the tension on the cables attached to Q’s wrist shackles tightened. Q felt himself being lifted slightly. The pressure on his shoulders increased. He would have sworn the muscles in his upper arms were slowly tearing. His knees, hips and shoulder joints were agony.

“According to the books, you can only leave someone on a rack type device for five to ten minutes at a time. After that you run the risk of long term nerve damage to the back and legs . . .” He smiled at Q. “But don’t worry. There won’t be any need to worry about long term complications.”

Suddenly, Norman tightened the rope around Q’s neck. The young man didn’t even have a chance to gasp for any air in before his throat was constricted. The rope burned into his neck. Cutting and abrading the tender skin. Q tried to struggle but his stretched body didn’t have any give to sway or fight against the bonds. Within moments, Q could feel the fire in his lungs for air. His head was hurting. A sharp splitting pain in his forehead as red and black splotches danced before his eyes. He could feel the small blood vessels begin to burst as petechial were forming. The ringing started in his ears and Q knew he had only seconds before he would lose consciousness. He struggled one last time, then his body seemed to slip in his bonds. The rope loosened and air quickly filled his lungs.

He sucked in a deep breath. Gasping for more even as his lungs were filled to capacity. His heart was racing and adrenaline rushing through his blood stream was tightening the muscles already straining in the restraints.

“STOP, NORMAN, STOP IT!” Sherlock shouted from his cage. “TELL ME WHY HANNA HAD TO DIE! WHY WAS SHE THE FIRST?!”

Norman turned away from Q and glanced down at Sherlock in the crate.

“Well, because she killed my mentor. Simple as that. Michael called her a witch . . . it just came to me, witches are burned at the stake. After I was done playing with her, we took her out and tied her to an old telephone pole still standing on the property. The aged wood burned quickly. She didn’t last long enough. She only screamed a little, unfortunately.”

“You think she killed Marcus? She didn’t . . . you failed to avenge your mentor.” Sherlock glared at the man.

Norman went over to the kennel and grabbed the electric prod again and jabbed it through the bars. Sherlock shouted as Norman electrocuted him again.

“She did it!” Norman shouted. “She said she did it!”

“No she didn’t . . . She lied to you . . . you think she could have gotten him drunk and then held him under the water while he drowned? You think she could hit him in the head with that rock? She wasn’t strong enough to do that. It wasn’t her.”

“You’re lying! You’d say anything to save your brother now!” Norman jabbed the prod in one more time but Sherlock barely made a sound as he was shocked. He tried to grab the prod away from Norman, but the older man pulled it back. “Let’s see how your brother enjoys having his cock cut off. Maybe I’ll even make you eat it.” He glared at Sherlock then he kicked the kennel.

Norman went back over to the wall and grabbed a carpet knife. The curve blade with the beveled edge being on the concave portion. The metal caught the light and reflected back, into Q’s eyes. He saw the blade coming closer to pale flesh. The touch of the cold blade against his abdomen.

Q closed his eyes. He knew he could not be brave. He knew he was going to scream. Tears were already rushing down his face.

“Please scream. I love to hear them scream.” Norman whispered to him.

The gun shot was loud. The sound of carpet knife clattering to the ground opened Q’s eyes. It was Norman who was screaming. Grasping his right hand that only moments before had been holding the knife. The hand was now mangled and bright red blood streaked down Norman’s arm and into his white dress shirt. He cradled his injured hand as he turned and glared at James Bond, standing in the doorway, his Walther already to fire again.

“Step away from him . . . I don’t want your blood to get on him.”

Norman sneered at Bond then reached to grab the end of the rope to tighten it around Q’s throat again. It was a single shot, center mast. The blood splashed over Q’s pale skin. Norman slumped to the ground; the rope still caught in his tight grip. He pulled the loop around Q’s throat again; the rough rope burning into Q’s skin as it tightened. The young man’s air was caught off again. Q could feel his face flush as he tried to gasp but nothing entered his body.

James rushed forward and tried to loosen the ligature but Norman had pulled it too tight. James bent down and forced Norman’s fingers apart the freed the rope. He quickly threaded the hemp back through the knot and eased the pressure on Q’s throat. Q took in a deep nasally breath through his nose, before his body slumped again. The extra tension on his shoulders making him want to scream out in pain.

“Q! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! Q!” Bond shouted.

“My arms . . .” Q could only whisper. His voice cut off by the bruising around his neck.

James rushed over and pushed the button on the electric winch. Q instantly fell to the floor. His strained leg muscles incapable to holding his body up. James rushed forward and wrapped the limb and bruised man in his arms.

“Q? . . . Did he hurt you? . . . Where are you hurt?”

“Not hurt . . .” Q whispered. “Just taller . . .”

James let go a nervous anxious laugh. He pulled Q’s limp body closer to his. The young man sitting in the man’s lap as James pulled Q’s head closer and buried the boy’s face into his neck.

The second gun shot was loud. James twisted Q away from the sound, blocking Q’s body with his own.

John Watson was standing at the door. His gun raised and pointed at the dead man now laying on the floor. A gun in Norman’s hand. One bullet wound to the chest, another to his head. Bond looked over his shoulder and saw that Norman had been trying to shoot him before he finally died. Watson had arrived just in time to save James’ and Q’s life.

Bond glanced over at the soldier. The cold and direct eyes of the blonde as he kept the gun held up and trained on the dead body. Bond nodded then turned back to Q.

“Where is Sherlock?” John asked.

“In here, damn it! Get me out!” Sherlock shouted from the kennel.

John rushed over and looked through the bars. Sherlock was still kneeling. His eyes glaring out from behind the steel bars.

“How the devil did . . . never mind. Do you know where the key is?” John asked wondering how Sherlock was going to live this one down.

“No . . . probably his pocket.” Sherlock shouted. “Just get me out of here.”

James and Q ignored the two arguing men. The two just sat together. Bond’s arms wrapped protectively around the thinner man’s frame. Q’s face buried deep into the warmth of James’ body. Nothing else mattered. Not Q’s shouting brother, or his dead cousin. Nothing mattered other than each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is almost over. Just one more chapter but it will be a long chapter. Thank you for all the encouragement and comments. I think some of you have caught on to the second secret hiding in the story. We know who the killers were and know we will learn . . .


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last secret is told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut and emotions in this chapter. If you wish to avoid the porn skip the middle section.

Epilogue

Mycroft leaned back into the soft leather chair. The expensive upholstery was butter soft under his resting palms. A knowing self-satisfied smirk covered his face. For years his family had been a distraction and an inconvenience to his political aspirations. Now, he would be able to bring the Carlyles to heel. Mycroft was practically purring with arrogance.

“I can’t believe it. Michael and Norman . . . no . . .”

“It was obvious it had to be someone in the family. As obvious as the reason you asked Sherrinford to look for the killers.”

“Why would I do that if I believe the person responsible for Marcus and Hanna’s deaths was here, living with me?”

“Simple. You hoped Sherrinford would uncover the information that would lead to Norman and Michael being removed from the board. I don’t believe you were going to have them arrested but probably convince them to flee the country. Then you would have besiege poor Sherrinford to come to your rescue again and take over as managing director of the Carlyle International. Of course Sherrinford would have to rely heavily on you to make decisions and to run the company. Then you would once again be in charge . . . defacto. Ruling from behind the throne.”

“You must think I’m some kind of monster to think I’m capable of that kind of manipulation.” Archibald tried to sound meek.

“Grandfather, you are that manipulative. And you have played your game and lost. You have limited choices left.”

The old man was flushed with anger as he sat in his wheelchair staring at his grandson. Robert hovered by the door. His hands crossed in front of his body. The tension in his shoulders was obvious. Robert recognized the severity of situation.

“The actions of my grandsons does not involve me.” Archibald Carlyle tried to speak coolly but the timbre of fear still came through.

“Three members of your family, your son and two grandsons were psychopaths. Serial killers. Not just serial killers by sado-sexual killers. Graphic and cruel. Wonder where that trait came from?” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up trying to bring a smile to his face.

“Remember, you too are related to them.” Archibald narrowed his eyes.

“Only by marriage. Signer was not your natural born son. You adopted him, but he refused to take the Carlyle name. Insightful on his part. I must commend my father when I speak to him again. No, it was your blood line, your direct descendants. Your family of insane sexual killers. How is that going to look knowing that numerous members of the board of Carlyle International were . . . unhinged.”

“Carlyle International will continue with me at the helm.”

“No, it will not.” Mycroft carefully crossed his legs. “You will step down completely from the board. I will choose the next directing manager and the company will pass from private ownership to public domain. All military contracts will be moved over to the MOD control and you will no longer be allowed to make any decisions for the company.”

“Or what?” Archibald was wondering if he should call Mycroft on any threat he could make.

“I will have the entire affair aired in public . . . tabloid news . . . aristocratic family involved in sexual perversion and murder. As for you, grandfather dear, you will be arrested as an accomplice to murder before and after the fact.”

“How can you say that!? I’ve done nothing!”

“Oh, on the contrary. You had the local police destroy evidence, withhold information from other investigative authorities, denied authorities to fully investigate the deaths of Peter Wilson, Hanna Carlyle and the disappearance of Sherrinford.” Mycroft listed off the offenses on his fingers.

“I did those things to protect my family.” Defended Archibald.

“You knew that Marcus was sick and did nothing to stop him from harming his family. And I believe we can prove that you either knowing allowed Norman and Michael to continue killing or at the very least turned a blind eye to their activities.”

“You can’t prove any of that!”

“Grandfather, you must know perception in the public eye is more important than truth. And I will see that the public perceives you to be a monster . . . just like Marcus, just like Norman and Michael.”

The old man glared at his grandson. Archibald’s skin flushed deep red with anger. He balled his fist and started pounding it into the arm of the chair.

“You bastard! You bastard!” He began to cough, and struggle to breath.

Robert rushed forward and held a crystal tumbler of water to the old man’s lips. Archibald struggled to drink the water. Coughing louder as Robert whispers softly to him. Mycroft remained still in his seat as he watched his grandfather fight to regain control. Robert looked up at the younger man.

“If Mister Carlyle was allowed to retire quietly, would you not release the truth to the press?” Robert asked as he was bent over the older man, gently rubbing his back.

“Yes, as long he never interfered with Carlyle International or contact Sherrinford again.” Mycroft nodded.

“And may he remain here . . . in his home?”

“Of course.”

Robert bent closer to the old man and whispered into his ear. Archibald’s lips thinned and his skin was still flushed, but he nodded his head.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and rose with an elegant grace. “I will be sending the contracts over for you to sign today. Do not waste my time with contacting your solicitor. This is your one and only chance, Archibald.”

“What!? I’m not even your grandfather anymore?” the old man hissed at Mycroft.

A cold threating hardness came to Mycroft’s features.

“You protected your son, Marcus . . . a pedophile and rapist. A murderer and sadist. He brutalized my brother, Sherrinford. You are lucky I don’t have you arrested and have you spend the rest of miserable life in a prison somewhere . . . No, you are not my grandfather. You are and shall always be . . . a failure. You not part of my family. The Holmes.”

“And do you think Sherrinford will come rushing home to the bosom of the Holmes?”

“I think my family has a great deal to apologize for . . . including our under estimation of Sherrinford.”

~Q~

Q woke in a warm bed. Light was shining in through tall windows that made up an entire wall of the room. The skyline of London was visible, the buildings cast in blue and grey shadows as the yellow fingers of sunlight spread out around them.

Q blinked as the sunlight filled the bedroom, then he burrowed his face deeper into the warm pillow in front of him. The pillow smelled wonderful but wasn’t very soft. Q shifted himself and realized the pillow wasn’t a pillow but a very warm and tanned body.

“James?” Q mumbled into the skin.

Bond quickly twisted in the bed. Rolling his shoulders and letting the rest of his body follow the movement.

“Q?”

“The light . . .”

James reached for a button on the nightstand and large cloth blinds lowered from the ceiling, defusing the light through the weave of the fabric. Q sighed and shifted closer to the warm body lying next to him.

“How do you feel?” James sounded worried.

While keeping his eyes closed, Q shifted and tested his limbs. His shoulders immediately complained. A sharp soreness to the muscles of his upper arms and across his shoulder blades. Q could feel is hips, knees and ankles also hurt. A dull worrisome throb of over worked and strained joints.

“I’m fine.” Q mumbled.

“Liar.” James leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to Q’s forehead.

The older man tossed the covers back and quickly got out of the bed.

“Where are we?” Q asked as he stretched out over the warmth James left on the sheets.

“My flat . . . London.”

Q’s eyes immediately opened and he glanced around. It was a modestly decorated bedroom. Simple straight line modern furniture. The bed was large and very comfortable. There were two nightstands with lamps and an armed chair in the corner. No pictures on the walls. No mementoes cluttering the flat surfaces. Q could tell that two walls were actually made up of floor to ceiling windows providing eastern and southern view of London.

“How did we end up here?” Q sat up. He winced as he pulled the pillows behind his back.

James came out of what appeared to be the bathroom. He held out a glass of water and two pills. Q looked cautiously at them.

“Don’t worry, it’s only paracetamol. When we were released by the paramedics at the house, we decided to return to London. You didn’t want to stay anywhere near your grandfather’s estate. You fell asleep in the car and I didn’t know where you lived. I brought you here.”

James slipped in the bed next to Q as the young man quickly took the medicine with a sip of water.

“Does M know we are back?”

“Not yet . . . I thought we could wait before we told him our plans.”

Q looked sideways at Bond.

“Our plans?”

James felt a twist in his gut. Sudden realization that he may have over-estimated his relationship with Q.

“Your plans . . . have you decided if you want to return to MI6 or are you going to . . . reestablish yourself with the Holmes?”

“I haven’t seen Violet and Signer Holmes in fifteen years. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever want to see them again. I know I don’t want to see Mycroft but I don’t think he will stay away.”

“I can make him.” James said softly.

“James, we can’t go around killing important members of our own government.”

“There are other ways to keep him away. You could disappear again.”

“But I like my job. I like my life, especially now that you . . . I mean if you want to be . . . if it is okay that . . .”

James leaned forward and quickly captured Q’s lips in a chaste kiss.

“It would be okay with me if we kept seeing each other.” The twist in James’ gut disappeared. Q finally smiled at the blonde.

He leaned closer and kissed James. His hand skimming down the man’s taut chest muscles, and resting on James’ abdomen. The kiss dissolved into more kisses, nips and the slide of their tongues against each other’s. James kept his hands flat on the bed and Q’s hands did all the exploring. The younger man slipped up on to James’ body and aligned himself to the blonde. Knees, hips, chest and shoulders. Q’s swollen cock rested beside James. The occasional shift in their bodies caused a gently rub. James moaned shamelessly as they did.

Q moved his hands up and dragged both through James’ short blonde hair. Pinching what he could between his fingers and tugging gently.

“Touch me, James . . . I want to feel your hands on me.”

James groaned and quickly wrapped his arms around the younger man. His fingers searching out the dark curls. His opposite hand sliding down the man’s back. Running over each and every protrusion along Q’s spine.

“God, I’ve wanted to touch you so bad. I’ve wanted to taste and feel . . . I want you.”

Q pulled back to focus his eyes on James’ face. His hand cupped James’ cheek.

“I want to know . . .”

James tried to reach up and kiss the man’s face, but Q pulled back again. Bewilderment colored the blue of James’ eyes as he looked up at Q.

“I want to know what it feels like when it’s real.” Q said again.

“Feel what?”

“Feel . . . The act of . . . I don’t want to be afraid any more, James. Please make me . . . not afraid.”

James hand came up and mirror Q’s; his hand cupping Q’s cheek. The young man could feel the heat from James’ palm. The thumb dragged over Q’s eyebrow.

“I don’t want you to hurt.”

“I don’t believe you will hurt me.” Q whispered back.

“Q?”

“Please . . .”

James stretched his body and reached for the nightstand drawer. He opened it and pulled out a small bottle of lube and a condom package.

“Roll off me . . .” James asked just after he gave Q another sweet soft kiss.

Q seemed to shiver but did as he was asked. He shifted over to the side and James twisted till he laid beside the younger man. Q and James were both still wearing their pants. James didn’t seem to be in a hurry to correct that. Instead, he placed feather light kisses across Q’s chest. Lightly dragging his beard stubble across sensitive tissue. He licked over Q’s nipple then huffed a warm breath over the rosy brown nub. The skin puckered and wrinkled. James leaned forward and tasted Q’s skin again. Lightly sucking on the erect nipple, then lightly biting at it.

Q moaned and arched his back into James’ mouth.

“James! . . .”

The blonde smiled and moved the other nipple. He repeated the stimulation as his finger and thumb teased the first nipple. When Q was panting and twisting under James’ face, the blonde pulled back.

“Take your pants off.”

Q moved quickly but uncoordinated. He accidently punched his knee into James’ stomach as he pushed his pants down and over his ankles. He apologized as he kicked the garment away. Rapidly wrapping his long arms around James’ neck and returning to kissing the blonde’s lips.

James laughed softly. His lips pulled back into to knowing smile that reached up to his eyes and wrinkled at the corners. How long had he wanted to see Q this enthusiastic? How long had he wondered what being with the young man would be like? He had never waited so long for another lover to ask for this. Most were in his bed within hours of meeting. There was rarely a slow give and take, negotiating between partners; and never as long as there had been with Q. The drawn out waiting as the young man circled around James. Wanting but not yet willing. The delay made every touch and every kiss more intense. More exquisite. James had not yet fucked the young man but he knew he wanted to do again and again. And he knew that Q was going to be more important to him than any other lover.

James pushed Q to lay on his back. He slicked the fingers of his right hand with lube, then wrapped his left arm behind Q’s shoulders. Laying on his left side, James curled his body next to Q. The young man’s neck resting on James’ forearm. James pulled up enough that he could look into Q’s eyes. The jade green encircled the black pupils. James paused for a moment as he studied the other man’s face. The halo of dark hair, the hooded eyes. The very round nose and sharp cheekbones. The dark lips. Q was remarkable . . . beautiful. And despite what had happed to him in his youth, he was innocent. More innocent than anyone else James had ever held.

The blonde could feel his heart pound hard in his chest. He leaned forward and softly brushed over the swollen red lips. A smear of warmth. The taste of tea and oranges. James pulled back and looked carefully again into Q’s eyes. For a moment he saw his own reflection across the lens. For a moment he saw himself looking back at him. He felt a sudden warmth blooming in his core. An incredible need . . . a hunger he had never felt before. He knew he was lost.

Slowly, James dragged his index finger around one testicle then the other, a slow figure eight. Q looked away and drew a deep breath. Holding it as he closed his eyes to the sensation of James’ finger teasing up the underside of Q’s cock, then back down. James played with him. A single finger tracing along the lines and veins of the appendage. Never completely encircling yet exploring and taunting the flesh.

When Q began to moan and whimper, James dragged his finger over Q’s perineum. Q arched his back and lifted off the bed. His legs fell open and granted more room to James’ hand. James lightly drew lines across the inside of Q’s thighs with his finger nails, eliciting a filthy moan from the young man. James kissed Q’s mouth, his tongue chasing the sound and vibration of the utterance.

James hand moved up and his fingers wrapped around Q’s length. A firm calloused pull, and James could feel the cock pulse in his hand. Just Q’s heartbeat, pounding through the stimulated organ.

“Please . . . James . . . I need to know . . .”

James laughed softly again. Only the little boffin would use words like ‘I need to know’ not ‘I need to feel’, ‘I need to experience’. Q was intellect.

James let his fingers slip lower and rub over the furrowed skin of Q’s opening. Q bucked again next to James. The young man reached up and grabbed James’ left hand. Intertwining their fingers together. James rubbed over it again then again. Slight pressure but no solid intrusion. He watched Q’s expressions. Making sure the young man felt no discomfort. No pain. James teased and waited as he watched Q flush pink. Licked his lips and began to beg.

“Please . . . James . . .”

One handed, James added more lube to his right hand.

“Open your eyes.” James whispered. Q obeyed immediately. James kissed him again. Then watched as he slowly slipped the first finger in.

Q’s eyes widened as the intrusion deepened, but James could see Q was not in pain. There was a softness to his expression. A warmth and need to the lines in Q’s face.

James twisted his finger and moved it in and out. Q sighed and went limp in the man’s arms. James moved slowly and carefully. Taking his time and gently guiding Q along. As two fingers penetrated the young man, Q remained relaxed and pliant to James and his kisses. The subtle brush across the prostate electrified Q’s muscles and brought on more begging and pleading.

With shaky hands. James tore the condom package open and carefully slipped it onto himself. He could feel his heart racing. The adrenaline rushing through his body. When was the last time that had happened? When was the last time he was so excited and fearful at the same time about taking another person’s body? . . . Since he was a young man? . . . Maybe the first time? . . . He suddenly felt as naïve as Q. As if this was the most important moment of his life.

James carefully positioned himself between Q’s thighs. The young man’s knee resting on James’ left shoulder while the other leg was wrapped around the blonde’s waist.

“Look at me, Q. I want to see your eyes, darling.”

He didn’t even realize he was going to utter the word until it came out. Q gazed up at him. A relaxed and slack smile looked back up at Bond. Slowly he entered Q’s body. The muscles yielding to the push of James’ cock but still firm and compressing. Both men groaned. Sweat breaking out over their skin as James stopped for a moment. He kept watching Q for any distress and when he saw none, he rolled his spine and pushed deeper.

Slowly and carefully, pushing and pulling. Together they moved. Within moments Q’s prostate was being stimulated and the young man was panting. Reaching up and clutching for the blonde.

“Oh, God . . . James, yes! . . . Please! . . .”

James twisted and leaned forward, picked Q’s hips up and aligned them better. Q reached for his own cock. His talented fingers wrapped around it. James could feel Q’s knuckles rubbing against his abdomen. He closed his eyes and tried to focus to keep from coming. He needed to hold off. He needed to wait for Q. Wait for the young man so they could come together. Everything together.

“James . . . I can . . . almost . . . please give me more.”

James focus shattered and he sped up. Chasing his own release. The sounds the young man made were an accelerant to flame burning low in James’ body. The flame swept up and consumed the blonde, pushing to his climax. His body crashing over as the rush of sex chemicals poured into his blood stream.

James heard Q gasp and push up. His body arching under the weight of James. The rhythmic constrictions around James’ cock was like a punch to the man’s solar plexus. The air being knocked out of James’ body as he was carried off with Q’s orgasm.

James rolled gently, his softening cock slipped from Q’s body. The two men laid panting next to each other. James slowly dragged his finger through the creamy residue of Q’s release that still coated each of their bodies. Q laid flat on the bed, his limbs spade out as his mind floated on remains of his peak.

James leaned over and kissed Q’s cheek. The young man turned his head and glanced at the blonde. He watched as James removed the condom and tied it off. A silly smile came to his swollen red lips. James couldn’t help himself. He laughed and reached in for another kiss.

“I am becoming a great fan of morning sex.” James whispered into the man’s neck.

“I’m becoming a fan of you.”

James pulled Q closer and wrapped his arms around the thin body. The two enjoyed the moment of closeness. The scent of sex and musk. The pairing of their heartbeats.

“I may have to work extra hard now to return my equipment.” James said with a laughing tint to his voice. “I’ve been promised the most wonderful benefit if I do.”

He watched as Q’s blushed deeply.

“You can’t believe I would let you . . .”

“Not at MI6 but I would be interested in bring you home and living out the fantasy.”

“Home?”

Again, James surprised himself with his frankness.

“I have been commissioned to be your body guard. I believe maybe I will need to continue on in that capacity.”

James was rewarded with Q’s laugh. Q nudged up kiss the man.

“Only if my cats agree.”

James returned Q’s kisses and went to roll the two of them together again. Pulling Q up to lay on top of his body.

The phone rang and James sighed dramatically. “Perfect timing . . . must be one of your brothers.”

Q collapsed forward into James, laughing softly as he buried his face into the man’s chest. James wrapped his arm around the younger man. He pulled Q with him as he stretched across the bed to reach for the phone.

“Bond.” James listened to the concierge. “Alright, send them up.” James hung the phone up. “I was right. Sherlock and John. They’re downstairs.”

“Oh, bloody . . .” Q rolled off James’ chest and onto the bed. His arm flung over his eyes. “I’ll send him away.”

“It’s alright. John said they brought us breakfast.” James laugh was just an exhalation.

He leaned over and kissed Q’s forehead and then rolled out of bed. He landed on his feet and went back into the bathroom. He came out with a warm wet flannel and carefully wiped Q down. Q watched him, fascinated by the care the older man was giving him. James smiled at Q then went back into the bathroom, wiping down his own body as he went. A few minutes later he came out wearing jeans and a jersey. He tossed a terry cloth bathrobe at Q.

“Better get dressed for our guests.” James said as they heard a knock at the door.

James went and opened the door, letting Sherlock and John in. John was holding a paper sack. He lifted it up and smiled at James.

“Trade you a bagel for cuppa.” The doctor said good natured.

Sherlock didn’t greet the blonde. His eyes were fixed on Q as he stepped out of the bedroom, wearing James’ blue bathrobe. He stepped closer to the younger man.

“Sherrinford . . .”

“Please quit calling me that. I prefer Peter.”

Sherlock paused for moment staring at his brother. Q kept a neutral expression fixed on his face. The two brothers seemed to forget the other men the flat. Sherlock reached into his pocket and removed a letter. He glanced at it for a moment then held it out to Q. The younger man stared at the note. Sherlock shrugged.

“It is from Mycroft. He wanted you to read it in private but if you wish, I will read it to you . . .”

Q turned away from Sherlock and sat down. He crossed his long thin legs seeming uninterested in the letter or his brother.

Sherlock tore open the letter and pulled the single sheet of vellum out. He carefully unfolded the page and cleared his throat.

“Sherrinford. I hope you can understand the difficulty I am having in writing to you. It is unusual for me to find myself in the wrong. And even rarer for me to acknowledge said wrong. After your disappearance, I had imagined what I would have said to you. How your thoughtlessly distressed our parents. I, myself, could not feel bereavement as we were never close. Having learned though, the truth for your disappearance and estrangement I can not fault you for your choices. The realization that we, and myself especially, have failed you as a family has been quite dev . . . devastating.”

Sherlock stumbled over the word. James and John stopped preparing coffee for everyone and remained still in the kitchen, watching. Sherlock cleared his throat again and continued to read.

“I know our parents wish to reestablish a connection to you. I genuinely hope you will consider allowing them. I too, wish to be more fraternal with you but can understand your hesitance. I have contacted Gareth Mallory since our last meeting. Please forgive my behavior in Scotland. I was overwhelmed by your reappearance. I have spoken to Mallory and assure him that your position in SIS was secured and I would not be interfering with it. I also have made it impossible for Grandfather to try and interfere with your life.”

“I have done a complete background check on Peter Wilson, Quartermaster of MI6. What you have accomplished without any assistance from the Holmes name is remarkable. You are extraordinary and I wish you success as you return to your life. Sincerely, Your brother . . . Mycroft.”

Sherlock folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He laid it down on the coffee table in front of the young man. Q just stared at it. He didn’t reach for the letter but remained still on the couch.

“I too, hope that we can reestablish a relationship, Sherrin . . . Peter.” Sherlock said. His voice was brittle as he forced the emotion down.

“Tell me the truth, Sherlock . . .” Q looked up at the taller man.

“What truth . . . that we failed you? That we blamed you for our parents bickering and fighting. That we blamed you for your parentage. It was not your fault that our father was unfaithful. It wasn’t your fault that my mother was unforgiving. It was not your fault, none of it. Including, the fact that Mycroft and I were hurting and took our anger out on you.”

Sherlock watched as his brother fought to keep the tears back. Q’s slim body shaking slightly under the large blue robe.

“No, Sherlock . . . When Norman had us in the basement . . . you said Hanna couldn’t have killed Marcus. That Hanna couldn’t have gotten him drunk and held him under the water . . .”

“No, she couldn’t.”

“How did you know? . . . How did you know exactly how he was murdered?”

Sherlock stared down at his younger brother. His expression calm but his eyes still intensely focused.

“Because I did it. I murdered Marcus.”

“Why?”

“I knew he would never be punished. Grandfather wouldn’t allow it. He was guilty, though. We all were. As I said. I owed you . . . a life for a life.”

“I never wanted you to kill him.” Q said softly.

Sherlock turned and realized James and John were standing there listening to his confession.

“I had to do something. I needed to try and make amends for what we did . . . what I did to you.” Sherlock looked at John and could see the concern in the man’s blue eyes. “I went down there after the search was called off. I went with the intention of killing him. Premeditated. I had the bottle of gin. I had drugged it with Rohypnol. I dragged him to the pond . . . the same one Peter drowned in. I pulled him into the water . . . it was cold. I pushed him down . . . His eyes got large as he started to lose oxygen . . . he tried to fight, but couldn’t. The drug made it impossible for him to. It didn’t take long actually . . . he only struggled for a little while . . . I finally let go of him and picked up a rock. I dragged the body to the edge of the pond and hit him in the forehead. Then I pushed his body back out into the water. No one saw me. No one knew I was there . . . It was very simple.”

“After you killed him, you returned to school and that is when you started taking drugs?”

“I kept seeing your face in the water instead of his . . . I kept seeing you struggle as I held you under the water to drown. The drugs took the nightmares away . . . but gave me new ones to deal with . . . I was unable to defend Hanna when her brother and cousin took her. I avenged you, but was too far down the rabbit hole to save her.”

Q stood up and went to his brother. Q looked up into Sherlock’s blue grey eyes. Then he wrapped his arms around his brother, pulling him tighter to his body.

“It wasn’t your responsibility. We all made mistakes, Sherlock. We failed each other.” Q whispered.

“I’m not sorry I killed him.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t.”

James and John watched silently from the kitchen as the two brothers reconciled. James could sense John’s anxiety.

“Whatever is said here will stay here.” James whispered. “If I could have gotten my hands on Marcus, he wouldn’t have gone easily.”

John turned and looked at the other blonde. The shorter man gave a quick sharp nod then turned to his lover. John stepped closer.

“Sherlock, we should leave . . .”

“NO!” Q gasps at the same time Sherlock says, “Of course, John.”

Sherlock looked at the doctor and could see the shine of unshed tears.

“John?”

“I knew you were a passionate man . . . It is proof of your devotion.” John laid a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. A gentle squeeze drew the detective’s eyes down to the connection between the two of them.

“Sherlock, don’t go . . .” Q pleaded.

Sherlock looked back at his brother. “I won’t be far away now, Peter.”

Q stared at his brother briefly before he let go. The two men separated. James stepped behind Q and wrapped his arms around the young man’s waist. John and James glanced at each other. They shared a knowing look that said they would talk later about this. Sherlock let John lead him from the flat. The front door closed softly behind them.

Q turned in the circle of James’ embrace. His face burrowing into the man’s chest as he let out the first pained sobs. James carefully guided Q to the couch where the two sat down. James pulled the younger man close as Q finally let years of fear and humiliation flow out of him with the tears. The marks were smoothed away. The stains were finally washing away from his soul.

“Q?”

“I’m okay, James.” Q whispered into the man’s chest. “We’re going to be okay, together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends this story. Once again I want to thank everyone whose been commenting. You have made the process of writing this story very enjoyable for me. It is wonderful to get feed back so quickly and to know others are having fun too. I hope no one is upset to find out Sherlock is a murderer, but we all knew he was more than capable to do it. I liked making John and James friends, too. I think they both are a little cheeky and together . . . what a pair.


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